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POEMS AND SONGS.
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SDIKBUBQB : PBI5TKD BT JOHN GRBIO AKD 80K.
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POEMS AND SONGS,
DESCEIPTIYE AND SATIRICAL.
JOHN BARE,
OTAGO, NEW ZEALAND.
^^-•''
EDINBUEGH:
JOHN GREIG & SON, OLD PHYSIC GARDENS.
MDCCCLXI.
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KD H'S'(p\S
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THIS VOLUME
IS BESPBCTFULLY DEDICATED TO THE FOLLOWING
GENTLEMEN, VIZ.,
Hon. JOHN HYDE HAERIS, District Judge, Dunedin ;
JAMES KILGOUR, Esq., M.P.C., D\inedin ;
JAMES S. SHANKS, Esq., Run Holder, Otago ;
ALEXANDER MACLEOD, Esq., Merchant, Dunedin ;
JAMES SMITH, Esq., Merchant, Dunedin ;
JAMES MARSHALL, Esq., Merchant, Dunedin ;
JOHN MOLLISON, Esq., Merchant, Dunedin
Mr WILLIAM BARR, Farmer, Springpark ;
T7NDEB WHOSE AUSPICES,
AND BY WHOSE KIND ASSISTANCE,
THE AUTHOR
HAS BEEN ENABLED TO BBING IT BEFOBE THE PUBLIC.
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PREFACE.
The Author of the following Poems, a native
of Paisley, emigrated to the thriving colony of
, Otago, New Zealand, in the year 1852. For some
years previously he had been at the head of one
of the first engineering establishments in Scotland.
Misfortunes, however, overtook him, as they have
done many a better man. Before leaving his
natal town he was entertained at a public dinner,
which was attended by many of the magistrates
of both town and country.
On his arrival at Otago he found it no easy
matter to hew out a new home for his wife and
children, but still he persevered, determined not
to be beat, and ultimately succeeded in estab-
lishing himself in a comfortable and independent
position, with
" Bread and cheese at his door cheeks,
And pancakes the rigging o't."
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PREFACE.
With regard to the pieces comprised in this Jittle
volume, many of them were composed when the
Author was busily employed upon his ground,
clearing with his axe, and many a long and sad
thought did they help to beguile, both by night
and by day; the writing of them out being, for a
considerable time, his greatest recreation afber his
day's labour. If the reader derives as much en-
jo3rment from their perusal as the Author had in
composing them, he will have no cause to regret
having patronised the collection.
South Ceaigilee,
Otago, November 26. 1860.
Digitized by LjOOQ IC
CONTENTS.
NOO, LASSES, JUST SIT DOWN A WEE, .
SONG,
DBUNKEN DAVIE DEIL-ME-CASE,
JOHNNIE AND NANCY'S COUBTSHIP, .
BAB M'GBAIN'S COUETSHIP,
ON A EAT,
THE MILLEB'S DAUGHTEB, .
thebe's nae place like OUB AIN PIBESIDE,
THE BACHEL0B*S BESOLVE,
VEBSES,
fibst love,
I'll wandeb doon by yon bubn,
0*EB mount CABGILL,
SPEAK YOUB MIND, ....
OF a' the SIGHTS THAT E'EB I SAW, .
gbannie's advice to HEB gbandchild,
I MAUN HAE a wife, ....
WHAT GABS YE GBEET, MY BONNIE LASS ?
AS JOHNNIE BODE O'EB YONDEB MUIB,
AeT me WHEN THE MOON IS UP,
6
8
11
14
16
18
20
28
25
27
29
81
88
35
87
39
41
48
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CONTENTS.
ye'ee never contented, '45
yesteeen i met a bonny lass, .... 47
STANZAS, 48
NOO, EOBIN, YE MAY JUST GIE'T UP, ... . 62
POEM, 64
THE DAYS OP YOEE, 68
SONG, 60
THEEE's NAE place like OTAGO YET, ... 62
AVON GLEN, 64
BE KIND TO THE STEANGEE, 66
CHEEE UP, MY JOLLY BOYS, 68
THE BONNIE HARVEST MOON, 71
PAWKIE AULD EOBIN, 73
LET EIVERS ROLL FOE SCOTIA 's TEARS, ... 75
GET SILLER, GUID NEIGHBOUES, .... 78
MY AIN DEARIE, 80
THE YELLOW BROOM, 82
OUR AULD GUDEMAN, 84
AULD RAB KEEKIT IN AT THE DOOR, .... 87
robin's ADVENTURES, 90
THE LOVE OF GOLD, 96
SONG, 98
A TOAST, 100
NEW ZEALAND COURTSHIP, 102
CRACK BETWEEN MRS SCANDAL AND MRS ENVY, . 106
TAM MAUT, 128
I GAED WI* MY SOCK TO THE SMITHY, . . . 126
OUR JOCK AT LAST MADE UP HIS MIND, . . 127
LOSH, JENNY, I'M GAUN TO BE MARRIED, . . . 129
RISE GOT YOUR BED, ....... lA
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00NTENT8.
TBRSBS ON THB PASSINa OP THE EEFORM BILL,
FUIB JOCK FLTTNG DOUN HIS THBAfiHIX' FLAIL ,
STANZAS, ....
10 HT OLD DOG DASH,
O WAE ON YE, JOCK, .
OBUB AWAY, TUG AWAY, .
H00*8 a' WI' ye, DEAB GOWAN HA*,
clashin' jenny TINKLEB,
NOO, JOCK, MY MAN, SIT DOUN BY MB,
OITB JOHNNIE GOT A STEOKB O' LOVB,
THE GRITBBIN' O'T, ....
AS I CAM THBO' THE WAIKEBA GLEN,
AITLD SANDY GAED TO SEEK A WIFE, .
WILLIE, WILLIE, MY GUDEMAN,
OF ALL THE LIVES I KNOW,
HEB NAINSEL' to NEW ZEALAND CAM,
FY, LET US a' to THE DINNEE, .
THE PLOUGHBOY HE COMES OWEE THE HILL,
WHEN DAYS AEE SHOET AND NIGHTS ABE LANG,
SEE YONDEE POOE DEJECTED WEETCH,
1 WONDEE WHAT USE THEEE's IN SMOKING,
BUT SILLEE'S BONNIE, ....
COME, TELL ME WHA'S THE BONNIEST LASS,
THEEE's NAE HAEM IN LIKING THE LASSES,
BE KIND TO THY FATHEE, .
1 WONDEE WHAT IN THIS CEEATION, .
TO MESSES S ^TH AND M LL,
MAGGY HAD MADE UP HEE MIND,
NOO QUAT YOUE FIDDLIN* AND YOUE PUN,
^EAGLES THEY CAME BOUND ABOUT,
184
187
189
144
147
149
161
164
167
161
164
168
170
172
176
177
181
184
186
188
190
192
194
196
196
198
202
208
206
208
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CONTENTS,
FEAQMENT, 210
OTAGO GOES AHEAD, MY BOYS, 212
what's WRAKQ WI* OUB JAMIE, .... 214
MAN, BUT YE'eE A CLEVEE CHIEL, .... 216
TAM MAUT WAS FOU* WHEN HE CAM HAME, . 218
OF ALL THE LOATHSOME SIGHTS ON EAETH, . . 221
WHEN TO OTAGO PIEST I CAME, 223
NEW ZEALAND COMFOETS, 226
1 HAVE GOT A WIFE AT LAST, 228
YESTEEEN I GAED TO SEE MY LASS, .... 230
KEN YE GIN THE NEWS BE TEUE, .... 231
LET CANNONS EOAE AND TETTMPETS BLAW, . 233
A WITHEE*D AULD MAN, 237
HXTEEAH FOE QTAGO, 238
AWAKE, MY MUSE, ......*. 240
FEAGMENT, 245
1 DEAELY LOVE MY NATIVE LAND, .... 246
THE HYPOCEITE GANGS TO THE KIEK, . . . 247
HIS HONOUE HE SAT IN HIS CHAIE OF GEEAT STATE, . 249
YE SILLY AULD BODY, 260
I LIKE TO STRAY AT GLOAMIN* GREY, . . . 262
COME, TUNE YOUE PIPES, 263
FEAGMENT, 264
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POEMS.
NOO, LASSES, JUST SIT DOWN A WEE.
Noo, lasses, just sit down a wee
Till ye get my advice ;
Nae doubt ye're guid as weel as braw,
But thinkna men are mice.
Sae dinna ye ower saucy be,
Nor treat oor lads wi' scorn ;
And dinna ye say no at nicht,
And maybe rue the mom.
Sae when a lad that lo'es ye weel,
Whas name will stapd the test,
Maks offer o' his heart and haun
To woo ye to his nest,
Then dinna ye wi' thoughtless pride
His breast wi' anguish fill ;
Ye hae the power, then, O be kind.
And rather cure than kill.
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POEMS.
Though now ye shine in youthfu' prime,
Adorned like beauty's queen,
Wi' roses blooming on your cheek,
And diamonds in your een ;
Alack-a-day ! this canna last,
And I maun tell the truth, —
The rose will fade like morning dew,
And sae will blooming youth.
Ah ! lasses, ye may laugh at love
As lang's your fancy's free ;
But wait till ance ye're in the net,
Te'U think ye're gaun to dee.
'tis indeed a weary pain.
As I can brawly tell,
It's naething when ye're met half way.
It's when ye dauma tell.
1 ance was sair perplexed mysel',
Altho' it's lang since syne ;
I lost the lass the simplest way
I thocht was to be mine.
*Twill do to mak anither sang.
But ye maun wait a blink ;
I wish some bonnie lass would send
Some paper, pens, and ink.
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POEMS.
SONG.
Tune— ^Ac Lea Rig,
Mary, leave your father's ha',
And gang wi' me, my dearie 0,
To yonder cot beside the bum,
That wimples doon sae clearly 0.
There wild flowers deck the clay-built wa's,
There's nocht to mak ye eerie 0,
For love stands blinking at the door
To welcome you, my dearie 0.
The moon shines bright o'er yonder hill.
And stars are sparkling rarely 0,
But your twa een outshine them a'.
And that my heart kens sairly 0.
Oh pledge your troth to me, sweet lass.
There's witnesses abune us ;
Nae mair our loving hearts shall part,
Till death comes in between us 0.
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POEMS.
She's pledged her troth in sweet embrace,
Wr joy their hearts are swelling 0,
While crimson blushes on her cheek
Their tale of love are telling 0.
They noo are ane that ance were twa,
They're happy late and early ;
True mutual love will bring content,
Tho' fortune smiles but sparely 0.
Then wha would sigh for lordly ha's,
Wi' a their pomp and splendour ?
And wha to mingle wi' the great
Wad peace o' mind surrender ?
He 's happier far that o'er the riggs
Gangs hame to his ain dearie 0,
In slumbers sweet he takes his rest,
And waukens blythe and cheerie 0.
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DBUNKEN DAVIE DEIL-ME-CAEE.
Drunken Davie Deil-me-care,
His taes are thro' his huits ;
His hreeks are oot at haith the knees ;
His stockings ower his knits.
A tattered bonnet on his croun
Lets in haith win' and weet ;
Wi' drinking, Davie Deil-me-care
Is deeing on his feet
Drunken Davie Deil-me-care
Gangs wi' an auld blue sark,
It's raggit, and it's claggit,
But it's no wi' decent wark.
For it's tattered, and it's battered,
Wi' his rowing in the mire,
Or when he's lying a' his length
• Before the kitchen fire.
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POEMS.
Drunken Davie Deil-me-care
Was ance a decent man,
Ere he forsook his ain fireside
And took the whisky can.
But oh ! he's sairly altered noo,
It's like to gar me greet,
See how he's tearing at his hair.
And stamping wi' his feet.
Drunken Davie Deil-me-care,
His throat is like to crack,
And for a drop of drink he'd sell
The sark frae off his back.
But cash and credit baith are gane,
Wi' six weeks o' the gell ;
There's dreadfu' thochts gattn thro' his head.
And Davie's no himsel'.
Drunken Davie Deil-me-care,
Now what about your bairns 1
They're rinning with sair bloody feet,
Amang the briers and ferns ;
Their claes are fleein' a' in rags,
Their backs are nearly bare ;
Their mother sits and mourns ower them.
The emblem o' despair.
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POEMS.
Drunken Davie Deil-me-care
Where now is a' your pride,
When ye gaed decent to the kirk
Wi' Nancy by your side ?
For heaven's sake hae done wi' drink,
For love o' wife and wean,
And happy days may yet be yours, .
For a' that's come and gane.
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POEMS.
JOHNNIE AND NANCY'S COURTSHIP.
The brawest lass that e'er I saw,
They ca'd her pretty Nancy,
Her bonnie face sae fa' o' grace.
Soon caught my youthfu' fancy ;
And 'twas about the Martinmas time
I feed wi' her ain father,
To plough his Ian', and thrash his oats.
And baud his kye thegither.
Blythe Nancy butter'd weel my brose,
Wi' her ain hauns she made them ;
I pree'd her mou' like honey dew.
And that's the way I paid them.
She was her mither's only bairn.
And brawly she was guided ;
And we were o'er the lugs in love,
Altho' we tried to hide it.
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POEMS.
But love will oot, do what ye will,
It is sae true to nature,
The flame that warms the loving heart
Is seen in every feature.
Her mither fand it oot at last,
Frae wrath nae man could stop her.
She oa'd me a deceivin' loon,
A hlackguard, and clodhopper.
She ordered me oot o' the house,
Said I deserved a helter ;
I couldna speak a single word
I was in such a pelter.
But Nancy cried, Haud still a wee,
There's ae thing I'll remark on.
That I will take the lad I like,
Tho' he had ne'er a sark on :
Sae mither ye may haud your tongue.
For I will plainly tell ye,
Although nae doubt I am your bairn
Ye hae nae power to sell me ;
Wi' Johnnie I'll gang thro' the warl'.
He's got my heart already.
And I would rather be his wife
Than royal prince's leddy.
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10 POEMS.
Weel doon, my lass I her daddy cried,
My word ! ye hae the slight o't,
And haud your tongue, ye scoldin' jaud,
• For Nancy has the richt o't.
It's honesty that maks the man,
And that will soon mak siller,
If honour he the port in view,
And virtue guide the tiller.
If Jock he poor, I was the same,
When I took you, my dearie.
And ye may gie consent or no.
For troth well never speer ye :
So ye may steek your giming gab.
It's time we had our breakfast ;
So, Johnnie lad, keep up your heart.
And let your love be steadfast.
I courted Nancy for a year,
Then she and I were married,
As man and wife we're happy baith.
Our love has ne*er miscarried.
We hae a bonnie lassie bairn
The picture o' her mither :
For men to leeve a single life,
Is nonsense a' thegither.
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I»OEMB. 11
KO M^aEAIN'S COURTSHIP.
AuLD Rab M'Grain fell deep in love,
And woo'd a bonnie lass ;
He had resdved to hae a wife
Whate'er micht come to pass.
But Nannie wadna gie consent,
For a' his gowd and gear.
But turning on her heel she said,
" What sorrow brocht ye here T
What brocht me here ? quo' Rab M*Grrain,
'Twas your twa bonnie een ;
Tm sick tired o' a bachelor life,
And o' my sister Jean.
Her tongue gangs like a skillet bell ;
My house is gaun to wreck :
But Nannie tum'd upon her heel.
And pointed to the sneck.
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12
Her mither she was weel content
That she should wed auld Eab,
Altho' his head was white as snaw,
And teethless was his gab.
And aye she gied the ither wink,
And aye anither frown,
At last she whisper'd in her ear,
He's worth twa thousand pound.
Her mither slippit to the door,
• And left them baith their lane.
When Nannie thocht she micht do waur
Than wed auld Eab M^Grrain.
Quo' Eab, at last, I think my lass
Te'U tak me for your man :
I think I will, and soon your brass
Will buy me a new pan.
Aweel, aweel, quo' Eab M^G-rain,
That may be when I'm deid,
When folk are lying in the mools,
They needna fash their heid,
Wha gets their wife or gets their gear,
It maks but little odds ;
So ye may wed as soon's ye like
When I'm beneath the clods.
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POEMS. 13
They made their paction firm and fast,
Mass John he made it sure,
But fortune will play kittle tricks,
In spite o' pith or power ;
For Nannie she decamped first,
And lost her spunk o' life ;
Noo Robin's on the hunt again.
And wants anither wife.
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14
ON A EAT.
Yb draiglet, dirty, worthless brute,
I hate ye as I hate auld Cloot ;
Of a' the vermin on this earth,
Doon to this time from Adam's birth,
Te are the warst and most detested.
But now your course shall be arrested.
I see ye 're looking for your dinner,
And that yell get, ye worthless sinner ;
See here's a dose that winna fail.
To bring your nose roun' to your tail :
Bring a' your friends to get a share.
Doubtless they're fond o' dainty ware.
Noo haste ye fast and clean the timmer,
Te ne'er before got sic a dinner,
Twill warm your heart and mak it bizz.
And set your stomach in a fizz :
Depend upon't ye 're welcome till't.
Ye 're no the first that frien's hae kill't
But what's gaen wrang ? what gars ye grew ?
Noo flee to drink, ye 're in for't noo.
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POSMS. 15
Nae mair ye '11 bore thro' my wheat-stack,
Or rive and tear among the thack ;
Nae mair ye '11 scrape below the floor,
Breaking my rest at midnight hour ;
Nae mair, ye tenant o* the gutter,
Ye'll sink your teeth in my fresh butter.
Or climb the wa's whene'er you please.
To fill your wame wi' sweet-milk cheese :
Like other thieves ye 're catcht at last.
And on the dunghill ye '11 be cast.
Where ye may lie till ye be rotten, —
There's nocht to pay for what ye 've gotten.
And tho' nae doubt you've got your due,
There's other thieves far waur than you ;
Twa leggit rats wi' hearts mair callous.
Committing crimes wad shame the gallows.
Ye only stole that ye micht eat,
Noo rats and men maun hae their meat.
And tho' through life they may escape
What they deserve — a hangman's rape —
A reckoning comes that's waur than death,
Ah, better they had ne'er had breath.
'Tis not with you as 'tis with them,
A lasting life of burning shame ;
They've dearly paid for what they wrocht, —
Ill-gotten gear is dearly bocht.
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16 POEMS.
THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER.
Our Johnnie's o'er the lugs in love,
Wi' Meg the Miller's dochter,
And day nor nicht he wouldna rest
Till he had gane and socht her.
She scorned at Jock, and tell'd him sae,
His lugs rang like a hell ;
And noo he wanders like a ghaist.
The laddie's no himsel'.
The callant's fairly gane frae meat ;
He canna sleep at nicht ;
'Twas just yestreen he gied a roar,
I waukened wi' a fricht ;
He roared out, Mother, oh my head !
My hrain is in a lowe ;
Grie me a drink, I'm in a hleeze
Like ony tap o' tow.
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POEMS. 17
He rings his hauns, he tears his hair,
He wanders hy his lane ;
His een are red wi' greetin' sair,
He's perfect skin and hane.
He winna plough, he winna thrash,
Puir Johnnie's sairly wrang ;
He puts his left hand to his heart.
And sighs haith loud and lang.
But Meg 11 mayhe rue the day
She vexed sae hraw a lad,
Her turn may come to he in love,
And he as sairly thrawed ;
And then she'll feel the humin' pain
That water canna quench ;
Just what our Jock is feelin' noo
For her, the saucy wench.
If Johnnie wad tak my advice.
He'd gie her tit for tat ;
He's hetter come than her indeed.
For a' her pride and chat.
Nae douht she has a pickle kye.
And Jock has nae much siller ;
But my gudeman was college hred, —
Her father's hut a miller.
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18
THEKE'S NAE PLACE LIKE OUB AIN
FIEESIDE.
There's nae place like ane's ain fireside,
In humble cot or ha';
There's naething like ane's ain fireside
When frosty winds do blaw.
Nae place can warm the heart sae weel,
If peace and love preside ;
It's there a man feels like a man,
Wi' a' a father's pride.
When heavy toil our body racks,
And weary banes are sair,
What better place to seek solace
Than in his ain arm-chair ?
The youngsters playing roun' about,
His wife s«ie kind and braw,
Compared wi' this I ken nae scene
Can be compared ava.
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POEMS. 19
'Tie worthy of the poet's pen,
As well's the painter's brush,
The humble cot, the curling smoke,
Within the fragrant bush ;
The bumie wimpling by the door,
Ifs pebbly bed sae clear.
The feathered throng wi' mony a song,
Gries music to the ear.
Otago boasts her valleys green.
Her hills and fertile plains.
Where scenes like this are often seen.
Spread o'er her wide domains ;
Where happy hearts make happy homes,
Where plenty reigns supreme,
'Tis worthy of the painter's eye.
And of the poet's theme.
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20 POEMS.
THE BACHELOE'S BESOLVE.
" I wish I had married/'
Quo' bachelor John,
As he sat himsel' down
Wi* a sigh and a moan ;
" I wish I had married,
Before 'twas too late.
For I'm noo an auld Batch,
That's a fact true as fate.
" I wish I had married
When I had my youth,
Noo nane will tak' me.
That's a plain gospel truth ;
The day has gone by,"
And he heavily groaned,
" I'm noo an auld Batch
In the slough o' despond.
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POEMS. 21
*^ I thocht to myser,
If I e'er took a wife,
That I ne'er would grow rich
A' the days o' my life ;
But what o' my wealth,
Or wha cares for me,
Unless when they wish
For the day that I'll dee ?
" I wash my ain saxks,
And I dam my ain hose,
I make my ain kale.
And I make my ain brose ;
I toil like a nigger
Wi' grub, hoe, or spade,
And when it gets dark
I crawl oflf to my bed.
" When I see honest men
Wi' their wives by their side,
When I see decent lads
At the kirk wi' their bride,
I hang doon my head
As I slip hame alane.
To my cheerless, my wifeless.
My cauldrife hearthstane.
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22 POEMS.
" By jingo," quo' John,
" I will yet try my luck.
There's aulder than me
That young Cupid has struck ;
Come weal, or come woe,
I will stand this nae mair,
There are nae fools like auld fools.
The deevil may care.
" 111 get a new suit
0' the true Wilkie cut,
111 shave my lang beard,
And I'll wash off the smut ;
Then 1 11 doon to young Nancy,
Sae trig and sae braw,
If she'll tak' me, she'll get me.
My cash, kye, and a'. "
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POEMS. 23
VERSES
Inscribed to Mr James Bbown, Artist, Dunedin.
Heioho ! this is a weary worl'
That folk maun struggle through,
And mankindi at the very best,
Are but a kittle crew ;
Sae mony lichts, sae mony shades,
Are seen in ways o' men ;
The human heart's a cayem deep.
Ah ! folk are ill to ken.
It's often said the simple man
Stands by the beggar's side,
It's e'en ower true a tale, I ween,
Gainsay it winna bide.
But beggar hete or beggar there,
Tho' he be clothed in rags,
He's better than a thousand knaves
Wi' all their money bags.
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24 POEMS.
It's often seen when rogues get rich
By every means that's vile ;
How men will crouch beneath their frown,
Or fawn to catch their smile,
But will neglect the honest man,
Mayhap if he be poor,
But honest worth turns on her heel,
And spurns the wretch's door.
It is indeed a weary worF,
A rough road to gang thro'.
And friendship's often but a name.
And fades like morning dew.
Aye, aye, it's e'en a weary worl'.
Aft cauld as frozen gnaw.
But spite o' fate, or love, or hate,
A man's a man for a'.
But, Jamie, man, keep up your heart,
It backs a noble head,
A head like yours can never fail
To bring ye daily bread :
That genius should neglected be.
That Nature's beauties trace,
And left to pine in penury.
Is mankind's dark disgrace.
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POEMS. 25
FIRST LOVE.
WAB on the day that I e'er gaed a courtin',
And black be the nicht that I saw her blue e'e,
Fm fairly distracted, demented, and racked,
1*11 never hae peace till the day that I dee.
love's ill to slocken, my heart she has broken,
It boms like a fire that nae water can quench ;
I'm out o' my reason, as I hae occasion.
And a' for the sake o' a fause-hearted wench.
When nicht's shades descend on the mountains and
valleys,
When flowers bow their heads as they sink in repose,
1 seek the dark glen where the echoes sae dreary
Bespond to my sighs and my heart-breaking woes.
I ance thocht on endin' my days in some gully.
By hangin' mysel' on some auld blasted tree,
But I thocht on the sin, and I thocht on my mither.
And so, Guid be praised, I let hanging a be.
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26 POEMS.
Ill 3heer up my heart, and 111 try to forget her,
She has broken her troth, and forsaken the truth ;
Forget her ! no never, although I forgive her,
Ah ! wha can forget the first love o' their youth ?
It Tvasna for love she took up wi' anither.
Unless 'twas the love o' the gowd and the gear ;
But wealth that is gotten by vows that are broken.
Will yet bring remorse and the hot scalding tear.
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POEMS. 27
I'LL WANDEE BOON BY TON BUEN.
I'll wander doon by yon bum
O'erhung wi' rocks sae dreary 0,
111 gang and meet my ain lass
Sae blythsome and sae cheery 0.
For she's baith leal and kind,
And I loe her most sincerely ;
I'll gang and meet my ain sweet lass,
When the moon is shining clearly 0.
A rose blaws sweet on yon bank,
It tempts the e'e o' mony 0,
It minds me o' my ain lass,
Sae blooming and sae bonnie 0.
Her youthful heart beats in her breast
When I come through the bushes ;
And mantlin' on her snaw-white brow,
Come up the crimson blushes 0.
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28 POBMS.
I wadna gie my ain lass
For ony eartMy treasure ,
To meet wi' her in yon glen
Is joy withouten measure Q.
And shell be a' my ain soon,
To live wi' ane anither ;
And while this heart is warm,
Neglect her shall I never 0.
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POEMS. 29
O'EK MOUNT CAEaiLL.
Cer Mount Cargill come winds sae chill,
When summer days are gane,
And nipping frosts bring mornings cauld,
Wi' clouds o' sleet and rain.
The speckled thrush within the bush
Nae mair his matins sing,
But cowering 'neath a dripping bough
He waits the coming spring.
Sweet Spring will come with verdant flowers
To deck both hill and plain ;
The laughing valleys soon will ring
Wi' mony a lively strain.
Alas ! it isna sae wi' man.
When fairy dreams are shorn,
Nae spring can cure the withered heart
That fickle love has torn.
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30
There's few in life that hae nae strife
Or hardships for to dree ;
There's mony a heart wi' care oppressed,
While saut tears dim their e'e.
A tyrant's pride is ill to bide,
And death is ill to dree.
But wha can brook the haughty look —
The scorn o' woman's e'e ?
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POEMS. 31
SPEAK YOUR MIND.
Speak your mind both frank and free,
As long 's ye do it civil ;
Tho' you should lose your dearest friend,
Speak truth, and shame the deevil.
But never of a decent man
Speak ill behind his back ;
But take him quietly by himseP,
And have a social crack.
Then you may tell him whaur he's wrang.
As well as hoo to mend it ;
Hell thank you as an honest man,
And winna be oflTended.
For oh ! it's base hypocrisy.
To tell a man you like him ;
And just as soon's his back is turned,
With slanders dark to strike him.
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32 POEMS. .
True friendship is a tender plant,
Misfortune nips it sairly ;
'Tis often seen 'midst poverty,
'Mang riches very rarely ;
For love of wealth and worldly power,
Turns friendship to the door ;
And many an honest man's despised
> Because that he is poor.
A friend that truly stands the test,
Is not so easy gotten,
And many a tongue can flatter well.
The while the heart is rotten.
But friendship nursed in genial soil.
Will turn a glorious treasure ;
It makes a heaven upon this earth,
A joy without a measure.
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POEMS. 33
OF A' THE SIGHTS THAT E'EK I SAW.
Of a' the sichts that e'er I saw
Between the nose and under jaw,
I'll tell ye ane I canna thole,
Be't red, or white, or black's a coal :
'Tis grisly beards, I canna bear them,
And wonder what gars bodies wear them.
Like harrow teeth they're stickin' out,
To catch the dirt below their snoot ;
Or like a caird for teasing woo'.
Or like the birses on a sow ;
While others mind ye o' a rat,
Harl't thro' the dirt in teeth o' cat.
Just see them supping wi' their spoon,
A' draiglet roun' their mouth and chin.
Enough to scunner saint or sinner.
And put a body frae their dinner.
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34 F0EM8.
The lass that fancies aught like this
Is michty needfu' o' a kiss.
It is a shame thus to disfigure
Man's noble face and gallant figure.
Were I a wife, and had a man
That wore his beard sae waefu' lang,
Wi' him I'd neither drink nor eat,
Until he laid it at my feet.
Let women then meet in convention.
And publish forth their firm intention.
That beards nae langer shall be worn,
But instantly they must be shorn.
If beards gied sense t'would be a' richt.
We micht get o'er the grewsome sicht ;
I rather think that's no the breed o't.
Although it whiles may do instead o't.
But here 111 close my crambo jingle,
To warm my taes before the ingle ;
I hope that nane will be offended.
If sae, it never was intended ;
*Tis only meant by way o' sport.
And, Guid kens, I get naething for't.
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POEMS.
GRANNIE'S ADVICE TO HER ORANDCHILD.
SPEAK the truth, my bonnie bairn,
Aye speak the sacred truth.
And never let a wicked lee
Come frae that bonnie mouth.
The truth is like a lovely flower,
That blooms in summer's day,
But 'tis a flower that never fades,
Its blossoms ne'er decay,
speak the truth, my bonnie bairn,
If ye would happy be.
Ye '11 ken the value of the truth
When ye 're as auld as me.
For tho' I'm tottering to my grave,
And gane is a' my youth,
A brighter day I hope to see,
In glorious realms of truth.
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POEMS.
Aye speak the truth, my honnie bairn,
Wherever ye may be ;
'Twill guide you through this weary world,
Sae like a troubled sea.
But truth will smooth the rugged path.
If ye '11 but keep it still ;
Truth never leads to what is wrang,
And never gomes to ill.
Now let me kiss that bonnie mouth,
And shed that yellow hair.
Then rin and bring a bonnie flower,
And I will busk it there.
And then ye '11 kiss auld Grannie's cheek,
And climb up on her knee ;
And yell be G-rannie's bonnie bairn,
Wha winna tell a lee.
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37
I MAUN HAE A WIEE.
Jock said to his mither,
I maun hae a wife ;
Eour and twenty years are lang
To lead a single life.
Noo I maun hae a wife, mither,
And be like ither folk ;
Ye needna glower and stare,
For faith it 's no a joke.
There's fat-faced Maggie Heather,
That thraws her muckle mou' ;
And plain-soled Jenny Hullock,
As rich as ony Jew ;
There'fl twa, at least, hae siller,
Forby a thriving stock :
Ye needna glower and stare.
For troth it 's no a joke.
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38 POEMS.
And then there's Mysie G-rosset,
That squints wi' baith her e'en ;
Wi' lowly-legged Nelly,
Forby her sister Jean.
There 's ither three hae filler,
Forby a thriving stock :
Ye needna glower and stare,
For troth it 's no a joke.
And then there's Peggy Bauchals,
She gets the name o' hoot ;
Although she 's no a beauty,
She's buirdly and she's stout ;
At threshin' and ditchin'
She beats the maist o' folk :
Ye needna glower and stare,
For troth it 's no a joke.
But I forgot to mention
A lass that comes frae Fife,
She's keen as ony razor,
And hard as ony knife ;
Sae I will gang and see her.
This nicht at aught o'clock :
Ye needna glower and stare,
For troth it *s no a joke.
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POEMS. 39
WHAT GAES YE GEEET, MY BONNIE
LASS?
What gars ye greet, my bonnie lass ?
What maks ye look sae eerie ?
A heart sae young and free o' guile
Should blithsome be and cheerie.
What maks your cheek sae pale, my dear ?
What maks ye sigh sae sairly ?
Ye used to sing like ony lark.
That welcomes morning early.
Oh I can tell what maks ye wae,
And dinna be offended,
It's blithe young Jamie o' the Glen,
And he alone can mend it.
He's just as ill's yoursel', my dear,
He's drooping like a daisy ;
He's o'er the lugs in love wi you ;
Your beauty dings him crazy.
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40 POEMS,
So dinna let your heart gang doon,
Ye manna look sae dreary ;
For Jamie's heart is a yer ain,
And ye 11 be Jamie's deary.
He's just as ill's yoursel', my dear,
He's drooping like a daisy,
He's o'er the lugs in love wi' you ;
Tour beauty dings him crazy.
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POEMS. 41
AS JOHNNIE KOBE O'EE YONDER MUIR.
As Johnnie rode o'er yonder muir,
He met a sad mishanter :
A bonny lass cam tripping by,
And Jock began to banter.
Whaur cam ye frae, my bonny lass ?
This is a pleasant momin' :
Tak* ye the guid o't then, quo' she,
Wi' muckle pride and scomin'.
bide a wee, my bonny lass,
My heart is in a flutter ;
It ance was sound as ony bell,
But now it's saft as butter.
" Keep ye your butter for your bread,
Till ye get better comin' ; "
She laughing said, and tript awa',
Wi' muckle pride and scomin*.
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42 POEMS.
Poor Johnnie couldna stand the shock,
His head and heart gaed crazy ;
He left his plough and ploughing graith,
And droopit like a daisy.
But Cupid had made up his mind
To end the war hy stormin*.
He shot a shaft through Jessie's heart,
That made her change her scomin'.
He filled her heart hrimfu' o' love,
And Jock was dancin' fain o't ;
He preed her mou', like honey dew,
To ease her o' the pain o't.
Sae Cupid hound them, hand and foot,
Wi' cords o' his ain formin' ;
And now they 're happy, man and wife, —
We hear nae mair o' scornin'.
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POEMS. 43
MEET ME WHEN THE MOON IS UP.
Meet me when the moon is up
And blinkin' ower the brae,
meet me by the trystin' tree,
My own sweet lovely May ;
There I will be awaitin' thee,
When shadows spoil the hill:
When, minglin' with the balmy breeze.
Come echoes of the rill.
meet me in the bushy dell.
Thou darling of my heart !
Why should we meet, and meet so oft,
And yet so often part?
With hope deferred the heart turns sad,
haste that happy day.
When I may ca' ye a' my ain,
My own sweet lovely May !
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44 POEMS.
I ken your father frowns on me,
Because that I am poor ;
Your mother thwarts my fervent love,
Wi' a' a mother's power ;
But love wafl never bought with gold,
Whatever men may say ;
For love is wealth in humble ha',
My own sweet lovely May I
They've met beside the trystin' tree.
The moments quickly flew ;
He clasped her to his beatin' heart,
His May was kind and true :
She's gi'en her heart, she's gi'en her ban'.
His wedded wife to be ;
My blessing on their virtuous love,
And on the trystin' tree.
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POEMS. 45
TE'EE NEVER CONTENTED.
Noo rake up the fire, Meg, and put out the licht,
TeVe raged like a bear this whole blessed nicht ;
Ye hae skelpit the bairns till your hands micht be sair,
Baith the cat and the dog hae come in for their share.
I wonder on earth what enjoyment ye hae,
To be raging and scolding by nicht and by day :
But ye 're never contented, whatever be our lot,
Te couldna be waur tho' ye hadna a groat.
We hae beef in the barrel, and sheep on the hill.
And ye micht be as snug as a mouse in a mill ;
But ye 're never contented, and never will be,
For ye '11 gim at the world till the day that ye dee.
woman I just think on the puir folk at hame,
Wi' their wee ragged weans, and their hungry wame,
While ye hae got plenty, and happy micht be,
But ye 're never contented, and never will be.
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46 POEMS.
We hae cash in the bank, and there's cash in the kist,
We hae something to spare, and 'twould never be
missed ;
And yet ye 're as hard as the edge of a knife,
And yell ne'er hae enough all the days o' your life :
There are some folks get wealth, and it brings them
a curse,
For they worship a God that's wrapped up in a purse:
You're a perfect skinflint, and a puir scart-the-bowl ;
woman ! be wise, and think mair of your soul.
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POEMS. 47
YESTKEEN I MET A BONNY LASS.
Yestreen I met a bonny lass,
The fairest lass that ere I saw ;
It wasna that her claes were fine,
That made this lassie look sae braw.
Twa glancing een o' bonnie blue.
Her neck as white as drifted snaw ;
Her hair, as dark as raven's wing.
Did sweetly ower her shoulders fa'.
Her cheeks were o' the rose's hue,
Sae fresh, sae blooming, and sae fair ;
The sweetest flower that ere was seen,
Could wi' this lassie ne'er compare.
Her step was licht as ony lamb
That sports upon the dewy lee ;
While ower each charm triumphant shone
The witching smile of modesty.
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48 POEMS.
STANZAS.
Respectfully inscribed to James Kilgoite, Esq. of Dunedin,
Otago.
We never hear o' witches noo,
And warlocks there are nane,
That used to sail in auld fish-creels
Far ower the stormy main,
To Lapland or priest-ridden Spain,
In company wi' the deevil,
To work some spell, by aid o' hell,
And bring some crying evil.
Or howking deep in auld kirkyards,
For rotten hearts and livers ;
Or drivin' ships on hidden rocks.
To smash them a' to shivers ;
Or shakin' com wi' cursed win',
To bring about starvation ;
Or signin' contracts wi' the deil,
To sell their ain salvation.
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POEMS. 49
We hear nae mair o' haunted glens,
Sae lone, sae dark, and dreary.
That made young chiels use mettle heels,
When gaun tasee their dearie;
The very fa'in' o' a leaf.
Or wavin' o' a thistle.
Would mak their hair stand up on end.
Like ony stake or bristle.
We never hear o' fairies noo,
0' brownies, or o' baukins.
Or auld wives scourin' up the hills.
In shape o' cats or maukins:
That couldna come by ony scaith,
If Satan did forbid it.
Unless wi' saxpence crookit weel.
And by my faith that did it.
Whiles through the air they flew like drift,
Wi' broomsticks for their naggies ;
And whiles they crammed folk fu' o' prins,
As ane would stuff a haggis.
'Thout rowan-tree nae house was safe
Frae devilrie and glaumer.
While every castle had its ghaist,
Banshee, and haunted chaumer.
i>
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50
I kent a cobbler ance mysel',
He was sae superstitious,
To speak o' fairies made him grue,
He said it made them vicious ;
Some callants got a wee peargun,
And loaded it wi' pease,
And through the key-hole hit his nose,
As he lay at his ease.
He gied a spring, and doun he fell
Half-dead upon the spot,
And cried, " Lord, pity me and mine !
Oh, Lizzie I Tm elf shot/'
But Lizzie got him to his bed.
And sent for spae-wife Nell,
Wha made him eat a lump o' saut,
And so she brak the spelL
A farmer, too, I kent him weel.
His kye would eat nae fother.
But stood and routed i' the loan,
And gied him mickle bother;
He took his weel ham'd weddin' sark.
And boiled baith claith and buttons,
And gied the kye the broo to drink.
And syne they ate like gluttons.
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POEMS. 5 1
There's Maggie Low, lang dead and gane,
A neighbour did affront her,
She turned her cow into a cat,
And for that same they brunt her.
Tar barrels were then in great request,
And ducking pools were plenty ;
While superstition held the torch,
The deevil he stood sentry.
Thumb-screws and raxjks did wonders then.
And trials they made shorter ;
And folk confessed the blackest crimes.
To save themselves frae torture.
Poor bodies then durst hardly think,
The laws were stern and bloody.
For every parish had its stocks,
Its hangman, and its wuddie.
The wisdom o' our forefathers,
Ca's forth our admiration ;
An auld wife roastin' on a fire.
Was sure a grand oblation !
But, Grod be praised, those days are past,
Thanks to our education,
'Twas superstitition did it a'.
The curse o' every nation.
John Barr.
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52 POEMS.
NOO, BOBIN, YE MAT JUST GIE 'T UP.
Noo, Bobin, ye may just gie't up,
I'm no sae keen o' men,
As wed a man three times my age —
Ye 're fifty years and ten ;
'Twould never do for me ava.
That's scarcely past my teens ;
Na, na, guidman, awa ye gang,
We never can be frien's.
Can darkness be compared wi* licht ?
Can water 'gree wi' fire ?
Can discord be compared wi' tunes
That's played upon the lyre ?
The nettle and the blooming rose
Can never mak a pair ;
Ye micht as weel expect the lamb
To lo'e the grizzly bear.
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POEMS. 53
Auld age and youth can never match,
'Tis not in nature's power ;
Love dwells with youth in fairy dreams,
Where Cupid builds his bower.
What gart ye leeve a single life.
Till ye are nearly blin' ;
To wed a man as auld as you
Would be a crying sin.
Ye needna sit and yammer there,
Ye'll get nae mair frae me ;
The bramble micht as weel expect
To wed the forest tree :
He's waiting doon in yonder glen.
The bonny lad I like :
What think ye o' my mither, Bab ?
Gie her yer banes to pike !
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54 POEMS.
POEM
Inscribed to the Honourable John Hyde Haeeis, Dunedin.
War, War, glorious war,
Death in a thousand shapes,
With fire and sword and butcheries,
With robberies and rapes.
What a glorious thing is war !
When cities are on fire,
When children's brains are dashed out,
Or trodden in the mire.
What a glorious thing is war !
With all its proud parade ;
Ah, 'tis a glorious privilege
To draw the glittering blade ;
To hack and hew at human flesh
Amid the cannon's roar,
When thousands meet in bloody strife
That never met before.
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POEMS. 55
What a glorious thing is war !
When showers of shell and ball
Besmear the earth with blood and dust ;
When rocking ramparts fall ;
When mangled men are strewed in heaps,
Far o'er the bloody plain ;
Where vultures keep high festival,
And banquet on the slain.
What a glorious thing is war I
To lie upon the ground.
And hear the groans of dying men
From many a ghastly wound ;
Wheu captured villages in flames
Illume the shades of night ;
When robbers come to strip the dead, —
Oh, what a glorious sight I
What a glorious thing is war !
The din, the blood, the strife ;
When vengeance calls on every man
To take another's life ;
To fire with grape, to stab with steel,
To perish in the flames.
To march up to the cannon's mouth
Through pools of blood and brains !
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56 POEMS.
What a glorious thing is war !
When ** Forward " is the cry ;
When thunder shakes the solid earth,
And smoke ohscures the sky ;
When mines are sprung, when shells are burst,
When high up in the air
Men's legs and arms are flying thick,
'Mid shrieks of dark despair.
War, war, glorious war 1
When death's red honours bloom ;
When thousands rush into the field
To find their bloody tomb ;
Where every step is tracked with blood ;
Ah ! this is glorious war,
When demons rage in human hearts,
And gates of hell unbar.
What a glorious thing is war !
When streams run red with blood,
Their waters changed to crimson hue.
Dyed with the purple flood ;
When fields of corn are trampled down
Beneath the iron heel ;
Where waved the golden grain before,
Wave spears and pointed steel.
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POEMS. 57
For liberty, for liberty,
War's glorious war indeed ! *
For liberty, for liberty,
The gallant heart must bleed !
But ruthless wars by despots made
Are only fit for hell:
May tyrants perish from the world,
That peace on earth may dwell.
John Barr.
South Cbagielee, 1859.
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58 POEMS.
THE DAYS OF YOBE.
The days of yore still linger by
And never are forgot,
The heart will cling to youthful scenes
And each remembered spot.
Each haugh, each howe, each sunny knowe,
The hazel bank, the bum ;
The days of yore are ne'er forgot,
But never may return.
The days of yore are ne'er forgot.
For memory will cling
To youthful joys and youthful loves,
In young life's early spring.
Ah I why so sweet, and why so short,
Is life's enchanting morn.
Ere fairy dreams and air-built towers,
Down to the dust are borne.
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POEMS. 59
The days of yore are ne'er forgot,
Though memory may fail
To note the scenes of passing age,
Or mark them in detail
The days of yore are deep engraved
On memory's sacred nm ;
The days of yore are ne'er forgot,
But never can return.
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60 POEMS.
SONG.
Kespectfully inscribed to the Ploughmen of Otago.
MERRY be the ploughboy
That whistles o'er the lea,
And blythesome be the ploughboy
That comes at e'en to me ;
When the bonny moon is shining,
And the distant echoes fa',
I'll meet my gallant ploughboy.
The kindest o' them a'.
merry be the ploughboy
That whistles through the glen.
When the happy birds are singing.
In their woodland cozie den ;
Where wild flowers sweet are blooming.
And the scented breezes blaw,
I'll meet my gallant ploughboy.
The kindest o' them a'.
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POEMS. 6]
merry be the ploughboy
That whistles in the mom,
When ower the rigs sae gracefully
He throws the yellow com.
1 winna seek for gowd or gear,
To make me proud or braw ;
My heart is wi' the ploughboy.
The kindest o' them a*.
merry be the ploughboy,
He bauds us a' in bread ;
* And we may thank the ploughboy.
For meikle that we need.
An' it wer*na for the ploughboy
Our comforts would be sma' ;
There's nae trade like the ploughboy's,
For it sustains them a'.
John Barr.
South Cbaigielee, 1860.
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62 roEMs.
THEKE 'S NAE PLACE LIKE OTAaO YET.
There's nae place like Otago yet,
There's nae wee beggar weans,
Or auld men shivering at our doors.
To beg for scraps or banes.
We never see puir working folk
Wi' bauchles on their feet,
Like perfect icicles wi' cauld,
Gaun starving through the street.
We never hear o' breaking stanes
A shilling by the yard ;
Or poor folk roupit to the door
To pay the needfu' laird ;
Nae purse-proud, upstart, mushroom lord
To scowl at honest toil,
Or break it down that he, the wretch.
May feast on roast and boil.
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POEMS. 63
My curse upon them, root and branch,
A tyrant I abhor ;
May despotism's iron foot
Ne'er mark Otago's shore :
May wealth and labour hand in hand
Work out our glorious plan.
But never let it be allowed
That money makes the man.
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64 POEMS.
AVON GLEN.
Op a' the places e'er I saw,
Between the toun and Warepa,
I'll tell ye ane that beats them a',
'Tis bonny Avon G-len ;
There nature decks with choicest flowers
The sunny banks and shady bowers,
And sweetly pass the golden hours
In bonny Avon G-len.
There crystal streams rin doon sae clear,
There warbling echoes meet the ear.
And wild flowers bloom the heart to cheer,
In bonny Avon Grlen :
But there's a flower abune them a',
The fairest flower that e'er I saw,
She's kent baith near and far awa,
The lass o' Avon G-len.
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POEMS. 65
Wi' this sweet lass I often meet,
To rove among the hills sae sweet,
For lovers what a blest retreat
Is bonny Avon G-len !
The blooming rose, wi' many a flower.
Combines to deck the cosie bower,
Where Cupid reigns wi' a' his power,
In bonny Avon Grlen.
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66 POEMS.
BE KIND TO THE STBANGER.
Be kind to the stranger, his hecurt may be sair,
And his purse may be licht, which increases his care,
Then turn out my lads, gie the puir man a start,
For we a' hae the power, if we've only the heart.
When an emigrant comes. to this far distant shore.
From the land of his birth he may never see more,
He needs a kind word, and a kind helping hand,
Then turn out, my boys, plough his wee bit o' land.
We brocht naething here, well as little take back ;
And 'twill be for a curse a' the year that we mak,
If we harden our hearts till they're cauld as the lead,
Kefusing to help a puir brother in need.
All honour be due to the kind Taieri men,
They welcome the stranger, and bid him " God sen',"
They strengthen his arm, while they gladden his heart,
And they form a bright spot on our settlement's chart^
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POBMS. 67
They ne'er turn their hacks, wi' a heart hard as stanes,
When he comes wi' his wife and his wee hits o' weans,
Or say 'mang themsells, Let them just find it oot,
We have plenty to do, let him turn out the hoot.
May their homes he the scene of contentment and
peace.
May their horn still be full, may their comforts in-
crease.
For their wives are sae kind, and their lasses sae braw,
Sae well e'en drink their health, wi' a hip ! hip !
• hurrah !
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68
CHEER TIP, MY JOLLY BOYS.
Gome, cheer up, my jolly boys,
They say there's work to do,
And by the powers they may say that.
For every word o't 's true ;
There's work enough to do, boys.
And more than can be done,
By every woman in this place,
And every mother's son.
There's work enough to do, boys,
And that same work is rough ;
There's ploughing, and there's ditching,
From Waitaki to the Bluff;
There's shepherding and shoemaking,
There's splitting posts and rails.
There's threshing by the bushel.
Both by bullocks and by flails.
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. POEMS. 69
There's work enough to do, hoys,
And money to he made,
For Otago's not a had place.
Whatever may he said ;
For the ladies all get married soon,
And 'tis they who rule the roast,
For they dress themselves like duchesses,
And never ask the cost.
There's work enough to do, hoys,
In that we all agree,
A deal of work must stand foment
The sugar and the tea ;
The storekeepers don't work so hard.
For each one is a gent.
And so they may, for all they sell,
Yields more than cent, per cent.
There's work enough to do, hoys.
There's little douht of that.
But Where's the cash to pay for't, —
That's something like the chat ;
Where are the mighty men of wealth.
That cried for lahour sore,
Are they waiting till, with honnet off,
Men ask it at their door.
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70 ' POEMS.
There's work enough to do, boys,
And we must straggle through,
But mind your eye, for you must drink
According as ye brew.
Then while the sun is shining, boys,
Be sure and make your hay,
For pennies with good keeping, boys,
Turn pounds some other day.
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POEMS. 71
THE BONNIE HAEVEST MOON.
Of all the seasons in the year,
I like the autumn best,
Ere winter comes with giant strength,
Or Flora gangs to rest ;
When scented breezes fill the air.
When distant echoes croon,
And ower the hill peeps lazily
The bonny harvest moon.
I like to hear the gentle breeze
That rustles 'mang the com,
When Ceres comes with graceful step.
And waves her crooked horn ;
When golden waves sweep o'er the fields,
When thistles shed their down.
And ower the hill peeps lazily
The bonny harvest moon.
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72 F0KM8.
I like to hear the reapers* sang,
To me 'tis sweeter far
Than a' the sangs that e'er were sung
In praise of cruel war ;
When brother sheds his brother's blood,
When despots grasp a croun.
And burning villages obscure
The bonny harvest moon.
may sweet peace with gentle sway
Keign ower Otago's shores,
May beauty smile in every ha',
While plenty spreads her stores.
May still her boast be honest men,
And as each year gangs roun',
May grateful hearts rejoice to see
The bonny harvest moon.
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P01EH8. 73
PAWKIE AULD BOBIN.
A IE — Laird o' Cockpm, \
Pawkie Auld Kobin cam up frae the glen,
Wi' a dozen o' eggs and a white tappit hen ;
My mither was cadgie, and gied him his tea,
For brawly she kenned he was coming to me.
He took out his pipe and he puffed up the lum,
Syne he drew out a purse that was bent like a drum ;
What think ye noo, lassie, will that thaw your
mou' ?
And gin ye tak me, it's the gowd 111 gae you.
Then he said to my mither, " Te'U gie me your
Jean,
Ye see I hae siller to mak our house bien,
And the very day after we've been at the kirk,
Te'll get a milk cow and a twa-year auld stirk."
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74 POEMS.
my bluid it ran cauld, and the swat brak like dew,
As I thocht upon Willie sae kind and sae true ;
And my mither cried, " Surely yell never refuse —
Just think o' the siller, and think o* the cows."
" Eobin," quo I, " gae Va hame to your mill,
Unless ye intend a puir lassie to kill ;
By the plack or the penny Til never be won.
An' I'd ne'er hae the father while I lo'e the son."
" My son T cried auld Kobin, " an' that b(B the case,
111 follow nae langer in sic a blin' chase ;
But since it 's our Willie, it 's Willie ye'U get,
Wi' the purse and the gowd, my bonny young pet."
Syne he wheeled roun' his chair and spak to my
mither.
An' for a hale hour they cracked baith thegither;
He kissed the auld body, the plea it was won,
For she gets auld Bobin, and I get the son.
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POEMS. 75
LET RIVEES ROI^L FOR SCOTIA'S TEARS.
Let rivers roll for Scotia's tears,
The pent-up grief of bygone years.
For mighty Wallace slain ;
Tho' age on age has passed away,
The deed is fresh as yesterday,
And bright the bloody stain.
That stain on Edward's jewelled crown.
Has doomed his name to fell renown,
For direful was the deed :
While hills are clad with winter's snow,
While waters run, while forests grow,
Heap curses on his head.
The horrid deed obscures the day,
It fills the heart with dark dismay.
E'en children weep and start ;
The gory scene comes fresh to view,
They hear each hack, they hear each hew.
They see his bleeding heart
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76> POEMS.
Thou human tiger, smeared with blood,
Now lap thy fill from yonder flood,
That gurgles at thy feet, —
The bravest blood that e'er was shed
From bravest heart that ever bled, —
Thy banquet is complete.
Thou tyrant of accursed fame.
Now what of thy detested name ?
It ever is abhorred ;
While he who fell beneath the dart,
Lives in each patriot's beating heart,
His memory is adored.
Oh, base Monteith ! black was thy heart,
Thou played the double traitor's part.
What traitor equals thee ?
None save Iscariot of old.
Who sold his Lord for love of gold,
Thy equal only he.
Shades of departed heroes wake.
The hero sinks in crimson lake.
And mighty Wallace dies ;
Clear, clear the way for " Wallace Wight,"
His blood has sealed his earthly fight.
He meets you in the skies !
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P0BM8. 77
Pale Scotia mourned in sable weed,
The tyrant's cruel, ruthless deed.
But soon her robe was changed ;
Unto her cause the beams return,
And reeking red ran Bannockbum,
Grreat Wallace was avenged.
Where winding Forth flows to the sea,
There shall his cairn erected be.
Each stone with sorrow sealed ;
'Twas there he drew his battle blade,
There, there, the tyrants low were laid,
'Twas freedom's battle-field.
Now Edward's reign is past and gone.
To infamy his name is known,
His splendour and his state ;
A sovereign sways his sceptre now,
His diadem crowns a nobler brow, —
Victoria, good as great.
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78 POEMS.
GET SILLEE, GXJDE NEIGHBOXJES.
Get siller, gude neighbours,
As fast as ye can ;
Te may say what ye like.
But it's cash makes the man.
Whaur there's plenty o' siller,
There is nae want o' sense,
Tho' your head were as dull
As a post in a fence.
Get siller, gude neighbours :
I'm sure it is fine
To be counted a gent,
And be asked out to dine,
Where we boast of our wealth,
And our cent, per cent, gains.
Where it's reckoned quite vulgar
To speak about brains.
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POEMS.
G«t siller, gude neighbours,
And wear a lang beard.
Like the birse on a sow,
Or the teeth on a caird ;
Talk plenty o' nonsense,
My word ! I'll engage
Ye may say what ye like,
And yell pass for a sage.
Get siller, gude neighbours
By foul means or fair.
And the mair that ye get.
Be the keener for mair ;
It 's a great consolation,
And a comfort indeed.
That it serves us sae weel
Eor the want o' a heid.
79
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80 POEMS.
MY AIN DEARIE.
It's ower yonder hill, and it's through yonder glen,
Whaur the burn rins doun sae clearly,
When the moon shines sae bricht, and the stars gie
their licht,
FU gang then and see my ain dearie. J j
For she's leal and true, and she's fair to the view.
Though she be nae a high born leddy ;
She's fair in every part, and she's leddy o' my heart.
And to mak her my bride I am ready.
As the rosebud that blaws, and the sna' drift that fa's,
Is the hue o' her cheek that's sae bonnie ;
While the lustre o' her een marks her out for beauty's
queen.
And the plotighboy she lo'es best o* ony.
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POEMS. 81
111 big a wee house in yon cosie den,
Whaur the wild birds warble sae clearly,
Whaur the kind word and smile shall every care be-
guile,
And the frowns o' the great winna fear me.
love is the lowe to licht us through this world.
Without it the road would be dreary ;
Wi' discord, toil, and strife, as the portion o' our life.
And nae resting place for the weary.
love is bauld, and they're just as cauld
That lo'e nae the bonnie lasses ;
Their hearts are o* stane, and their judgment it is gane,
And their lives are a blank as it passes.
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82 FOSMf.
THE YELLOW BEOOM.
Tune— /S^coitoiMf « SpinninC Wheel.
The yellow broom, the bonnie broom,
It cheers my heart to see,
It minds me o' my youthfu' days,
When rovin' ower the lea,
Or sportin' 'mang the birken shaws,
Whaur wild flowers shed their bloom,,
I pu'd the berries, growing wild,
Amang the yellow broom.
still I see the heathery hill.
Bedecked in purple bell,
And still I see the hawthorn tree
That bloomed within the dell ;
And still in fancy can I rove
By yonder mined tower.
And still I hear the wood notes wild
In yonder shady bower.
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POEMS. 83
weel I lo'e the sunny bank,
And weel the sunny brae;
And weel I lo'e the dusky hour
That shuts the gates o' da/.
1 like to sit by yonder stream
When echoes gently fa',
When bricht the moon shines ower the hill.
And balmy breezes blaw.
weel I lo'e the woody glen
Whaur pours the roarin' linn,
And dashin' doun frae rock to rock
Sends forth it's endless din.
It minds me o' my native land,
Her sunshine and her gloom,
Her woody dells, her boggy fells.
Her thistle and her broom.
Thy very name, O Scotia dear.
Brings saut tears to my e'e ;
Thy heath-clad hills and mountain rills
Shall ne'er forgotten be.
weel I lo'e the land o' cakes.
Where love and freedom reign.
Though now, alas ! I'll never see
My native shores again.
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84 POEMA.
OUR AULD GUDEMAN.
Tune — There's nae Luck aboot the Houte.
Our auld gudeman gaed to the toun
To sell his pickle woo,
And he cam back without a plack,
His noddle reamin' fu'.
And on the road he tint his wig,
Twas black as ony slae,
Forby a plaid I span mysel*,
The best o' hodden grey.
weary on the barley bree.
In bicker, glass, or horn ;
weary on the barley bree.
It brings baith skaith and scorn.
So in he cam wi' fearfu' bang,
And clashed doun by the fire ;
His coat was hingin' a' in rags, .
His hands were fu' o' mire.
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POE3f8. 85
His face was scarted richt and left
Wi' fa'in' in the creek :
I turned aside to hide the tears
That trickled doun my cheek.
weary on, &c.
Ohon ! quo' I, shame, fye,
what a sicht to see I
A decent man in sic a plight ;
Is this yer love to me ?
Is this a way to treat a wife
That aye has lo'ed ye weel ?
And what a sicht for Johnny there,
The decent, sober chiel'.
weary on, &c.
What's that, quo' he, don't speak to me,
111 leave ye a' the mom ;
111 sell my nowt, FU sell my kye,
And a* my wheat and com:
And dinna speak anither word.
But keep as quiet's a moose.
Or else I'll tak and break yer back,
And then Pll fire the hoose.
weary on, &c.
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86 POEMS.
Wi* that he tumled aff his chair,
And fell upon the rug ;
And there he lay till momin' grey
Beside the collie doug.
I sleepit nane that lee lang nicht,
My heart was like to break ;
But there he lay wi' collie's paws
Firm claspit round his neck.
weary on, &c.
But noo it's altered days, I trow,
I'm blyther than a queen,
For ilka day is blyth as May,
We're gettin' snug and bein:
But hoo this change has come aboot,
I trow ye '11 never guess, —
Our Kobin's turned tee-totaller.
And winna taste a glass.
weary on, &c.
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W)EM&. 87
AULD EAB KEEKIT IN AT THE DOOR.
AuLD Rab keekit in at the door,
Grude nicht wi' ye a', quo' he ;
Oh come awa, Rab, says my mither,
You're just in gude time for your tea :
Draw in that auld stool to the fire,
' And gie us a sereed o' your news ;
I*m tauld ye hae been at Dunedin,
And gotten a mob o' fine coos.
Then hey for the coos and the heifers,
And hey for the lasses sae braw,
Gin ye dinna hae plenty o' heifers.
In courting your chance will be sma'.
'Deed mistress, and that's very true,
I hae gotten twal heifers and mair ;
I bocht them frae Mr M'Clymont,
That comes frae the county of Ayr.
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88 POEMS.
He wanted ten pounds for ilk heifer,
And I had a terrible facht ;
At last wi' fair speakin' and priggin',
I made him come doon to the aucht.
Then hey for the coos, &c.
But thaf s no my erran', gude woman,
I've got ither fish for to fry ;
For I'm wanting a wife, honest luckie.
To help to look after my kye.
I've been lookin' at your dochter Jenny,
She's weelfaur'd and strong in the bane ;
And to tell you the truth, honest woman,
I'm sick tired o' biding my lane.
Then hey for the coos, &c.
I canna put up wi' your leddies,
That servants maun hae at their tail ;
'FoT 1 maun hae £^|^to sup parritch.
Or tak a gude skinfu' o' kail.
The leddies lie up wi' their headaches,
The next day they're wanting a goun,
And the next they're afif on their travels,
And rakin' the hail kintra roun'.
Then hey for the coos, &c.
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POEMS. 89
Now Jenny's a gude hand at delvin',
Can shear sheep, or thrash wi' the flail ;
And I ken that she's weel up to milkin',
Or hreakin' in kye to the bale.
Weel Bab, quo' my mither, you'll get her,
Sae there is a shake o' my ban' ;
But first yell mak ower to our Jenny
The half o' your siller and Ian'.
Then hey for the coos, &c.
Bab lookit as blear't as a houlit
When tryin' to glour at the sun ;
The half o' my siller, quo' Bobin,
As weel as the half o' my grun !
Bab sprang frae the stool in a hurry.
Like ane that had gotten a fricht,
111 bid ye gude nicht, honest woman.
For I maun gang hame while it's licht.
Then hey for the coos, &c.
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90 POEMS.
EOBIN'S ADVENTUEES.
A TALE.
Inscribed to John M*6lashan, Esq., Provincial Solicitor.
'TwAB Winter, and the fields were bare,
Cauld sleety show'rs flew threw the air ;
When nipping frost brings morning chill,
And snow lay thick on Flagstaff Hill ;
When busy flails thrash out the grain,
And farmers count their loss or gain :
When bees are robb'd o' a' the treasure
They thocht was theirs to eat at leisure :
I'm often vexed it should be sae ;
They're no their lane, there's mony mae
Wha toil through life with restless haste
For fruits they're never doomed to taste.
'Twas then a chiel, bent on carouse,
Cam to the toun, gaed on the booze.
He met some frein's, auld worthy cronies —
So they adjourned to honest Johnnie's,
Wha keeps a house for selling yill,
Whaur folk aft gang to tak their gill.
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POUMS. 91
Baith meat and drink he has in plenty,
What suits the roughs, what suits the gentry ;
For horse he keeps baith feed and fother
At little cost and little bother.
He has a wife baith gude and bonnie —
In fact she's just the life o' Johnnie I
But what's a man without a wife ?
A broken reed ! a bladeless knife !
A sort 0* thing we've little need o' ;
They tak their meat — it's a' they're gude o'.
A married man, wi' cosie ingle.
May weel look down on men that's single.
They should be taxed, and that maist tichtly,
For treating bonnie lasses lichtly.
John kent that Eobin's purse was spacious,
So welcom'd him with smile maist gracious,
Speired for his wife, wha is a treasure,
And drank her health wi' muckle pleasure.
So doun they sat to hae their splore.
And soon the house was in a roar.
Blythe Willie o' the kirn and cappie
Was never in his life sae happy ;
They sang o' Wallace, Bums, and Bruce,
Till ilka board dirl'd in the house ;
They sang o' Scotia's fertile vales,
Her heath-clad hills and windin' dales.
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92 POEMS.
Her battle-fields for Freedom fought,
i That ne'er was sold and ne'er was bought ;
) Wi' mony mair I dinna min' :
; K At last they joined in " Auld Lang Syne."
j Immortal Bums I though now in dust,
' Thy name survives thy mortal crust ;
I Thy name now spreads from pole to pole.
Immortal as thy mighty soul !
) But noo the sun was ower the hill,
I And Bab ca'd for the partin' gill :
I They drank it out and syne they parted —
But first saw Eobin fairly started.
Sae aff he set just in the gloamin' —
He little dream'd o' what was comin' :
The nicht grew dark and darker still, .
Black thunder-clouds hung ower the hill.
Till doon it cam, a fearfu' nicht ;
The stars were hid freie mortal sicht,
And Boreas ruled wi' upper hand.
And waged a war ower sea and land ;
The splashing rain fell down in sheets.
And made a loch o* muddy streets ;
Great trees were torn up by the roots.
And torrents took the place o' brooks ;
The sea sent up its booming roar,
And dashed its billows to the shore.
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POEMS. 93
As deadly foes engage in battle,
So did the thunder *roar and rattle :
And noo it was as black as pitch,
And Eobin tumbled in the ditch !
Where he lay sprawling like a puddock,
And gasped for breath like ony haddock !
At last he scrambled to the brink :
Confound, quo' he, that cursed drink !
Gude faith, I'm fu', it's my belief.
Faith I maun turn anither leaf.
He noo was wadin' to the kuits ;
At last he lost his pair o' buits.
And through the dirt and muddy holes
He trampit on his stockin' soles.
He ran — ^he stood — ^he fell — ^he flounder'd —
And out-and-out was fair dumfounder'd :
Frae side to side he reeled and started,
And 'mang the briers was sairly scarted.
Hoo lang he gaed he couldna tell.
He noo was fairly by himsel' —
But gied ae ither mortal reel, —
When, lo ! he heard a fearfu' squeel I
His hair stood up wi' perfect dreid,
When ower he tumbled, heels ower heid :
He tried to rise — ^'twas a' in vain,
Wi' perfect fricht his strength was gane ;
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94 POEMS.
But did his best and made a glaum,
And catched a cloot in ilka fiaun :
Oh ! Gruid be here ! what's this o't noo ?
Here is the deil, in shape o' sou I
ril ne'er get ower this fefiafu' nicht.
At last he saw a welcome licht —
'Twas Eobin's wife, wha heard his cry,
And got him in his ain pig-stye !
Wi' muckle wark she got him oot,
Wi' broken ribs and bluidy snoot ;
And just as day began to peep.
Poor Robin ! he had fa'en asleep.
Three weeks he lay, in sair dejection,
And noo I'll gie ye his reflection : —
Drink brings fair youth to early grave,
The warmest heart it will deprave ;
A mother's heart it's often broke.
And wither'd many a father's hope ;
It robs fair manhood o' its pride.
And sets it by the beggar's side ;
It ruins health, and shortens life —
It fills the world with deadly strife :
It's just the root of every evil, —
The very right hand o' the deevil !
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POEMS. 95
THE LOVE OP GOLD.
Bespectfully inscribed to James Ceawfobd, Jun , Esq., "W.S.,
Edinburgh.
"The love of money is the root of all evil."
The love of money is an evil root,
It changes men and makes them like the brute —
It makes them worse, for brutes are often kind —
The very rats will feed and lead their blind ;
But selfish man, whose heart is set on gold.
Will see his father perish in the cold ;
For him a saint might die beneath a hedge ;
He takes the widoVs garment for a pledge ;
He starves the poor, that he may richer grow,
And turns them out to famish in the snow.
He buys up food that 's scarcely fit for mice—
The poor must buy, but at a double price ;
His balance, weights, and measures are unjust,
Mean Avarice reigns with soul-degrading lust ;
He tells a lie without a blush of shame.
And for its truth he takes God's holy name ;
He knows no pity — ^that would mar his gains ;
The love of gold has bound his soul in chains.
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96 POEMS.
While he with chains his brother man will load,
He sells for gain the image of his Grod !
The child he buys before its mother's eyes,
•And gags her mouth to stop her piteous cries ;
The father, too, heart-broken by the lash.
Like any brute is sold for simple cash.
Inhuman wretch I tho' now thy conscience sleep,
Angels on high thy bloody records keep ;
For sure as heaven above the earth doth stand.
As sure as seas are girded by the land,
A time will come, resistless as a flood,
O'erwhelming thee, thou cruel man of blood !
For love of gold the tyrant mounts his car,
And slaughters thousands in remorseless war ;
The burning city and the gory field.
Where Freedom crushed lies on her broken shield —
The dungeons deep — ^the gibbet and the rack —
All these, and more, must follow in his track :
And still for gold he steeps his hands in gore,
That end attained he yet cries out for more.
When other men are sunk in balmy sleep.
He o'er his wealth will ponder long and deep ;
Passions accursed now hold the mental reign.
Above them all the cursed love of gain.
No sleep can soothe the fever of his soul.
Phantoms arise, and heaving billows roll ;
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POEMS. 97
He dreams of ships that on the sea are tost,
He sees them sink, and all his treasures lost :
Bathed in cold sweat his frame with horror shakes,
He dreams again, and then — ^with horror wakes.
Oh ! what a weight — ah ! what a galling load —
Hangs at his soul, and drags him from his God !
For love of gold he sold his glorious youth —
For love of gold he parted from the truth ;
Old age has come, but still the love of gold.
With iron grip, has ta'en the firmer hold :
And still he toils — and still he sighs for wealth,
Though broken down and gone his precious health.
And he must die ! nor wealth, nor human power,
May grant him life hut for a single hour.
Yes, he must die, and leave his gold behind,
Soon to be spread like chaff before the wind ;
For him no sigh, no friendly tear will fall.
They thank him not who now lay claim to all :
No joy to him religion did impart.
Dark was his soul, and hardened was his heart.
Compared with him, behold the man of truth —
Age full of hope, reward of virtuous youth ;
Serene his mind, till step by step he rise.
Honoured on earth — immortal in the skies !
South Obaioielee, 1860.
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Digitized by CjOOQ IC
98 POEMS.
SONG-.
Respectfully inscribed to James S. Shanks, Esq.,
Bosemount.
kiBi-^Ye hanks and braes o' Bonniis Doon,
Now summer comes wi' skies sae clear,
The hills are clothed wi' verdant green,
And wild flowers bloom wi' sweet perfume ;
To other's eyes a lovely scene :
But yet I cannar think it's hame,
To me it brings nae joy ava,
For memory turns to windin' bums,
And heathery hills that's far awa.
Still memory clings to youthfu' scenes.
When in the blush of dawnin' mom,
I heard the lark's sweet warblin' note,
Far, far abune the wavin' com.
I see each rill, I hear them still,
I see the smoke curl through the glen,
I see each flower by brook and bower,
In many a bonnie cozie den.
i
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FOBHS. 99
In memory still I climb the hill,
And gather berries ripe and sweet,
. I hear the linn's low murmurin' din,
I see it gushin' at my feet.
I see the purple heather's bloom,
I see the ruined castle grey,
I see the copsewood in the glen.
Where oft I pu'd the nut and slae.
But now I roam in foreign lands.
And all is changed as changed can be,
Nae mair 111 see my faither's ha'.
Ah 1 all' is changed indeed to me.
Still, still I cling, with miser care.
To youthful hopes, too bright to last:
The present but a shadow seems —
I fondly think upon the past.
South Cbaigisleb, May 1860.
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100 POEMS.
A TOAST.
Come, fill up a bumper, 111 give you a toast,
'Tis ** Otago the free, with its iron-bound coast,"
Where the hard-working labourer wealth may attain,
Treated no longer with freezing disdain.
Here stout-hearted yeomen call acres their own.
With a blessing they reap the fruits they have sown,
And the name of a beggar ne'er tarnished our fame,
For the man who can't live has himself but to blame.
That labour is sweet that increases our store.
Keeping poverty marching afar from the door ;
No reptile to sting, no wild beast of prey
Harassing the shepherd by night or by day,
For our flocks they increase on the rich grassy hills.
And rest them in peace by our clear winding rills.
Here men go to rest, no bolts to their doors.
No pestilence reaches our far distant shores —
No war to alarm, and no blood-thirsty foe —
Peace reigns supreme wherever you go.
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POEMS. 101
Troubles doubtless there are, which must be got o'er,
But when they are past, it is " Fill and fetch more ;"
There's no sphere in life but has somewhat of ill,
In Otago there's less, aye, go where you wilL
Come, boys, then, we'll drink to Otago the fair,
May those who respond live happily there ;
So hip, hip, hurra I for our valleys so green,
With three gallant cheers for our Sovereign the Queen.
South Gsaioielee, June 1860.
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102 POEMS.
NEW ZEALAND COURTSHIP.
IF ye want to get a wife,
111 tell ye hoo to try,
Ye mauna speak a word o' love,
But brag about your kye.
You mauna speak a word o' love.
They'll only laugh and jeer,
And say, gin that be a' ye hae.
Ye needna hae come here.
But ye mauna speak a word o' love,
They'll only laugh and jeer,
And say, gin that be a' ye hae,
Ye needna hae come here.
So ye maun brag about your kye,
And o' your horse and pleugh,
And tell how mbny knowt ye hae.
And if that's no enough.
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POEHS. 103
Then tell that ye hae got a hoose,
And that ye hae a byre,
And that shell lead a ledd/s life,
Wf servants for to hire.
But ye mauna speak, &c.
And tell her ye hae got a farm
Laid aff in bonnie drills,
And that ye heie a bullock-dray
That gangs on four gude wheels ;
And that ye hae baith ducks and hens
That number by the score,
And that ye hae a gross o' pigs
That feed about the door.
But ye mauna speak, ka.
Then tell her ye hae lots o' cash.
And that yell soon get mairj
And in the course o' twa three year
Tell keep your chaise and pair ;
And that she'll never need to wash.
As little bake or brew.
As a' the dirty slaisterin' wark
Will a' be done by you.
But ye mauna speak, &c.
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104 POEMS*
And that shell baith get tea and toast,
Though you should feed on banes,
And that yell aye be hame at e'en
To wash and bed the weans.
When ither wives are suppin' kail,
That shell be drinkin' wine,
Nane o' yer common sort o' stuflF,
But sparklin' champagne.
But ye mauna speak, &c.
Then tell her to mak up her mind.
Because it's gettin' late.
And as the night is lookin' wat
Te'll hae to tak the gate ;
That is the way to woo a lass
On this side o' the worl' :
Te ken our heads are upside doun,
Gars ilka thing look drolL
But ye mauna speak, &c.
Sae ye hae gotten my advice,
It is yer only chance.
And them that winna hae ye, syne,
Just let them gae to France ;
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POEMS. 106
And crack yer thooms and say, My lass,
Yell never vex my life,
If s no for ony love I hae, —
I only want a wife.
But ye manna speak, &c.
But stop ; there is another verse
Which I had maist forgot.
For when ye think that a' is right.
It whiles gangs a' to pot ;
Sae to get ower this fashions pairt,
I really would advise,
That yell get married right aff han',
And then put in the cries.
But ye mauna speak, &c.
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106 POEMS.
CKACK BETWEEN MRS SCANDAL AND
MBS ENVY.
Mrs ScAimAL*
So Bobin at last has got buckled.
It has been a sair battle wi' Bab ;
Some say he has gotten a leddy,
And some say a puir silly drab :
Some say that she washes wi' gloves on,
And bakes wi' a veil ower her face —
Did ye ever hear tell o' the like o't ?
Losh me, 'tis a piteous case.
Mrs Envy.
Aye, and some say there's nae leddy aboot her,
But ower muckle pride in her skin ;
That her faither was just an auld carter.
And he was the best o' his kin.
But Bobin, of course, is enchanted.
For love maks a puir body bliti' ;
But he'll ken something better aboot it
At the end of the sweet honeymune.
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POEMS. 107
Mrs Scandal.
Weel 111 tell ye a thing that I heard o',
But didna believe 't for a blink,
Some say that she cocks her wee finger,
In short, that she's gien to the drink ;
But ye mauna let on that I tell'd ye,
For clashin' I never could bide,
Tor I never speak ill o' my neebours, —
That's kent thro' the hail kintra side.
Mrs Envy.
They say 'twas an unco fine weddin',
Wi' everything grand and genteel ;
And they borrowed Miss Crinoline's piano,
And syne they pranced through a quadrille :
They had silver forks at the supper —
They micht hae been daein' wi' less, —
But they werena their ain, I can tell ye,
Whaur they cam frae I brawly can guess.
Mrs Scandal.
Did ye hear how puir Bab was affronted,
When they gied him a turkey to carve,
Hoo he flang doon the knife in confusion,
And gied it a rug and a rive ?
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108 POEMS.
The stuffing cam out like plum parritch,
When Eobin the legs o't did thraw,
And he roared, " Gruid be here, for the creature
Has never been gutted ava."
Mrs Envy.
Can ye tell me, is't true she's pockmarket ?
But what aboot that tho' she be ;
They say that her mither cried herring,
But I'll warrant that's just a great lee.
But I never could bear to hear clashin',
And never was gien tilt mysel', —
Ye '11 be gaun to the kirk, Mrs Scandal,
Weel, there's the first clink o' the bell.
Mrs Scandal.
'Twas just at the ball whaur she said it,
'Twas a shamefu' undecent remark ;
If we only had auld Tam o' Shanter,
We had noo got an auld cutty sark.
When I sippit a glass o' warm negus,
Had ye seen hoo she tum'd up her nose ;
And she whisper'd that auld Mrs Scandal
Was better twjquainted wi' brose.
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POEMS. 109
Mrs Envy.
Waa there ever sic doonricht impudence,
Set her up wi' her lang yellow face ;
The tongue o' that woman is shamefu',
An even-doun perfect disgrace,
m tell her my mind when I see her,
I'm gaun ower to her house to my tea ;
She's a woman that's void o' discretion,
And shamefu' at telHn' a lee.
Mrs Scandal.
D'ye think, mem, her husband is wealthy ?
Some say the shaft's oot o' the mell ;
Folk really should speak wi' discretion,
They hae plenty to do wi' themsel'.
I've heard that his property's bonded.
That's no very likely, I troo ;
He was here the last week at oor Saunders,
And wanted to sell him a coo.
Mrs Envy.
But she's waur than him, Mrs Scandal,
A bank wadna keep her in claes,
Tho' ye canna sit doon in her parlour
Till ye 're like to be eaten wi' fleas.
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110 P0KM8.
I wadna just say that she's drucken,
But it's either a burst or a starve ;
And if folk come to want wi' their wastry,
It's naething but what they deserve.
Mhs Soakdal.
I can tak a bit dram like my neebours,
And I think folk should drink when they're
dry;
That's no the way she does, poor woman.
She taks a' her drink on the sly.
And, indeed, she's a vain silly body,
And grandeur can ne'er mak her braw;
D'ye no think her back, mem, is twisted ?
I aye thocht it had a bit thraw.
Mbs Envy.
I saw her last week at the concert,
She's very sair alter d indeed ;
But I couldna but laugh at yon gum-floors
Stuck up on the side o' her head.
Ton's ane o' her ain makin' up, mem,
Wi' clippit dowii ribbons, nae less ;
Tho' she's famed far and new for her meanness,
She's a wonderfu' body for dresa
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POEMS.
Ill
Mrs Scandal.
Miss Daisey was there in her grandeur,
An even-doun bundle o' pride ;
What's the name o' yon lad wi' the whiskers
That sat the hail nicht by her side ?
Ill warrant he's some empty puppy ;
He had rings on his fingers I saw ;
He took gude care to let plenty see them,
As he stroked and stroked his jaw.
Mrs Envy.
That's excellent tea, Mrs Scandal,
I ken by the way that it pours ;
And the flavour is really delightfu',
111 warrant it's Boss & Kilgour's ?
Did ye notice the tea at Miss Crabtree's ?
Ton's some that she bocht at a sale,
It just had the taste o' dishwater,
Ypn 's what the folks get in the jail.
Mrs Envy.
Mistress Wasp, it's a terrible pity,
Has got hersel' into a scrape ;
She ca'd Mrs Nails a she-tiger,
A leather-jawed, ill-speaking ape.
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112 POEMS.
She cast up her nose, red wi' drinking,
Used a word that I canna weel name ;
Mistress Nails couldna speak for her passion,
Bat she fainted as sune 's she got hame.
Mrs Scandal.
But thafs no the warst o't, dear neighbour,
The case is gien in to the law.
If she only had cuist up her drinkin'.
There could be nae damage ava ;
She 's a very ill-speakin' woman ;
Did she no tak an ill will at me.
For saying her man was sae greedy —
He would trail twenty miles for his tea ?
Mrs Envy.
I was sorry for poor Master Henpecked,
'Twill put the puir man sair aboot,
Twa beautifu' coos in ae momin',
Grot lyin' clean deid wi' the toot ;
Dear me, it 's a sair, sair misfortune,
And gie's the puir man a sad rug.
But his wife is an even-doun randy,
And leads him the life o' a doug.
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POEMS. 113
Mrs Scandal.
She strikes him, I heg to inform you,
He whiles has to flee for his life y
'Twas just the last week that she chased him
Kouii' the house wi' a big carvin' knife.
I got it frae Mistress Hysteric's,
Wi' mair that I brawly could tell ;
She may weel hand her tongue, the vile dasher,
I've seen her sair touted mysel'.
Mrs Envy.
Mistress Snarl is at her auld traffic,
Dae ye ken what she said aboot me ?
She ca'd me a clashin' auld tinkler,
That ocht to be trailed through the sea.
She had better tak care o' her languages,
Or I'll gie her a bonnie het face ;
She's kent far and near for a dasher.
And ocht to be drummed oot the place.
Mrs Scandal.
John Dramglass is wonderfu' ill, mem.
They say it's wi' ower muckle drink ;
For sax days and nichts, mem, thegither.
He never has sleepit a wink.
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114 POEMS.
He's ill wi' delirium tremens,
What vulgar folk ca' the blue deib ;
And John's seeing mermaids and monkeys,
Thrang dancing strathspeys and quadrilles.
Mrs Envy.
I'm sorry for poor Mr Dramglass,
He may thank his ain namesake for that ;
Mistress Dramglass was here just this momin'.
And oh ! how the puir woman grat.
She's been very sair tried wi' her fam'ly,
For oh ! they're an ill-daeing crew ;
And some o' them's no reckoned honest.
But surely that canna be true.
Mrs Scandal.
There's to be a great court the next week, mem.
It's a serious case about sheep ;
That sheep trade's a kittle affair, mem,
When ye gie them to ithers to keep.]
But I'm sure I ken naething aboot it.
It pays some, and that braw and weel ;
They need a lang spoon. Mistress Envy,
That sup kail and brose wi' the deil.
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POBM& 1 15
MiiB Enyy.
You're richt there, again, Mistress Scandal,
Tho' doubtless they're a' honest men ;
But folk should look after their business,
And whiles see their sheep in the pen.
For siller is wonderfu' temptin'.
Ye see, mem, it brings such respect ;
Do ye no see yoursel' when folk's poor, mem,
They're treated with dounricht neglect.
Mrs Scandal.
Hae ye ever been up at Mount Castle ?
It should hae been ca'd the Balloon ;
For its biggit on win', I can tell you, —
That 's kent by the half o' the toun.
Master Envy was sayin' this mornin'.
There'll be a fine tumble ere lang ;
I would glory to see their doun-comin',
My word, it would alter their sang.
Mrs Envy.
I dinna envy them their grandeur,
Altho' its provokin' to see
Trash like them, rankit up mang the gentry,
That landed without a bawbee.
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116 POEMS.
Mail especially Mistress Grlenpastry,
That woman's a perfect disgrace ;
Did ye hear she had strucken her servant,
Wha decently spat in her face.
Mrs Scandal.
I'm getting a fine Carron grate, mem,
I'm determined to try the new coals ;
Puir fellows, they should he encouraged,
That howk in the earth like hlin' moles.
Wood fires, mem, are getting quite vulgar,
And then its sae cosy to see
A honnie coal fire in the parlour.
When twa three folks meet at their tea.
Mrs Envy.
Ye are perfectly richt, Mrs Scandal,
It puts us in mind o' langsyne,
0' the lang winter nichts and the gaslicht,
Nice dinners, deserts, mem, and wine ;
And servants wi' honnie white aprons,
We got them for aucht pounds a year ;
When they spak, they said "mem," wi' a curtsey.
My certy, that 's no the way here.
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POEMS. 117
Mrs Scandal.
I'm sorry, dear mem, to inform you,
Wauf woljien hae come to the place,
To ruin our braw strapping youngsters.
And bring them to lasting disgrace :
Baith them, aye, and them that hae brocht them,
Should be swung ower the wharf by the heels ;
A virtuous woman 's an angel.
But they are the lowest o' deils.
Mrs Envy.
Master Gingham will now mak his fortune,
Did ye hear what he did the last week ?
My word, whaur the carcass is lyin'.
He 's sure to be there wi' his beak.
He has bocht up the carpenters' shavin's,
And'by a new process o' steam.
They are turned into bonnie blue ribbons,
To be ca'd the Victoria Sunbeam.
Mrs Scandal.
Will they never hae done wi' inventions.
They tell me they are fleein' by steam ;
And makin' duck eggs by the dozen,
Wi' grated-doun carrots and cream.
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118 POEMS.
They are makin' sea-sand into sugar,
Hedge-leaves are converted to tea ;
And horse-beans are made into coffee,-
Awa' wi' sic trashtrie frae me.
Mh8 Envy.
Did ye hear o' the Half-Way Bush spree, mem ?
It 's to be a grand supper and ball ;
And Miss Pinchbeck is gaun wi Saft Souther,
Wha has bocht her a grand Paisfey shawl ;
It 's either a shawl or a plaid, mem,
I'll warrant its twa gude yards wide ;
But a wedge o' broun saip would be better.
To harl the dirt aff her hide.
Mbs Soakdal.
They were always a low class o' people,
Tho' praised by their friend Craigielee ;
They say that we're baith in the papers.
That's surely a manifest lee.
He 's a low, worthless, raking auld blackguard,
That 's seen by the company he keeps ;
A wheen drunken fiddlers and singers,
I reckon nae better than sweeps.
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POEMS, 119
Mbs Envy.
There's honest James Brown, the grand painter,
He bra^y could gie him his due,
He could paint Craigielee and his divors,
A' dancin' through ither blin' fu*.
Wi' blythe Jamie playing the fiddle.
And S beating time on the door ;
While the deil could be takin' a nobbier.
And drinkin' gude luck to the core.
Mrs Envy.
What was he yon chatf rin' bit body,
We met the last nicht at our tea ?
Yon story he telt aboot music,
I'm sure 'twas an even-doun lee.
He was like some tom-doun playactor.
That had sung for his bread thro' a fair ;
And yon thing they ca' an imperial,
I'm sure is just pasted-on hair.
Mrs Soakdal.
You'll no guess wha's got a piano,
Nae less than Miss Vulgar hersel'.
And she yells and screichs night and day, mem,
At polkas and Scotia's Blue Bell.
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120 roEMs.
She's driving the neebors distracted,
They're threat'nin' to tak her to law,
But she squeals aye the louder and louder,
It's done by the way o' a thraw.
Mrs Envy.
the pride o' this wearifu' warl', mem,
And the impidence, truly, o' som^ ;
Tak' a wee drap o' this, Mrs Scandal,
You'll find it most excellent rum ;
1 prefer it to brandy or gin, mem.
Though gin's very wholesome, they say,
But a wee drap o' this. Mistress Scandal,
Warms the heart for the whole blessed day.
Mrs Scandal.
Did ye hear o' John Sleekie's misfortune ?
0, mem, it's a wonderfu' crack.
He was gotten the last Friday momin',
'Mang the ferns on the braid o' his back.
He was in at the Governor's dinner.
And got himsel' desperately fou' ;
They say that his kye's to be roupit,
For a bill that sax months has been due.
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POEMS. 121
Mrs Envy.
Did ye hear o' Miss Violet's disaster ?
She has gotten a wonderfu' fricht ;
She was walking wi' Mr Carnation,
Dear me, and was out the hale nicht.
I'm sure it was never intended;
The poor lassie's been unco ill ;
'Twas a mist that cam on and they wandered.
And landed at Kaikara Mill.
Mrs Scandal.
Isna Dunedin, mem, wonderfu' altered ?
It's no like the same place ava ;
Fareweel to our high-boasted virtue,
That used to be purer than snaw.
It was for nae gude she was walkin'
Wi'- Carnation at that time o' nicht ;
And as for the mist, that's a' nonsense.
It was full moon, and shinin' fu' bricht.
Mrs Envy.
So Miss Eosebud is gaun to be married.
She has now been a fortnight a bride ;
Did ye hear o* that wonderfu' story,
That is gaun through the hail country side ?
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122 POEMS.
Te see, mem, that auld Master Eosebud
Wr the match is no very content.
And he raised sic a row wi' his dochter,
• She fell clean aflf her chair in a faint.
Mrs Scandal.
Some think her a wonderfu' beauty;
She never appeared that to me ;
Do you no think she squints, Mrs Envy,
Or maybe she's blin' o' an e'e ?
Yon bonnie white teeth she's sae proud o',
They never grew into her head ;
She lost her's langsyne wi' the toothache,
And got fause anes to do in their stead.
Mrs EisrvY.
Do you know, mem, I am truly disgusted
Wi* the clashin' that's gaun through the toun ;
Ye canna put on a new bonnet,
Far less can ye buy a new goun.
Till it's sent through the place wi' the dashers,
Like a roup that's been cried wi' the bell ;
They really deserve to be punished ;
I'm thankfu' I clash nane mysel'.
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123
TAM MAUT.
Drunken Tam Maut's gane awa' to the toon,
His sense and his siller in liquor to droon,
And he winna come back till he's in the blue deils,
Seein' cats and red monkeys wi' spurs on their heels :
When jjbninken Tam Maut gets ance on the spree,
Hell fecht wi' the wind, or he'll fecht wi' a flee,
Hell roar, curse, and swear, without sense or shame,
And he caresna a feg for his wife or his hame.
Then he'll roar out for drink to slocken his drouth,
Wi' his teeth set on edge, tind the foam at his mouth,
Then hell dance roun' the room wi' a whoop and a
yell,
But that's reckoned naething when Tam's on the
gell.
His breakfast is whisky, his dinner's the same,
And he taks it for supper, to smother his shame ;
Then he lies in his bed like a lump o' deid clay,
And he roars out for drink by the first screigh o' day.
As hia senses gang oot, then the deevil comes in,
And yell ken its Tam Maut by his roarin' and din ;
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124 POEMS.
There's a croud at the door for they're tumin' him
oot,
And he lands in the dirt as he's wheelin' aboot.
Noo drunken Tarn Maut has gane hame to his wife,
He has broken her heart and embittered her life ;
But what cares Tam Maut for man, wife, or wean.
He has noo dune his warst, and his judgment is gane.
Noo he'll rage through the house like a bull in a ring,
Then he'll sit down and greet, then he'll jump up and
sing;
Then hell gang to his bed, but he'll no sleep a wink.
For his brain is on fire wi' the fumes o' the drink.
Noo hell jump oot o' bed, swear the deil's in the
house,
Tho' its naething ava but the squeak o' a mouse ;
But there 's deil eneugh there when Tam*s in it him-
ser,
Por he 's noo in confab wi' the demons o' hell.
Cauld sweat noo in torrents pour down his pale face.
And 'tis plain to be seen he has finished his race ;
He pants noo for breath, and he clutches his hair.
Death closes the scene, and he dies in despair.
Puir drunken Tam Maut's noo laid in his grave.
He wasna a thief, nor was he a knave ;
And yet he was waur, for wi' drinkin' and strife,
He cheated himsel', and he shortened his life.
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POEMS. 125
I GTAED Wr MY SOCK TO THE SMITHY.
I GAED wi' my sock to the smithy,
Just nae farther gaen than yestreen ;
And I ventured to spend a bit shilling,
wr Vulcan, my auld trusty frien*.
A long leggit limmer to tell her,
Set aflf like a rocket wi' speed,
When up cajne my raging she-tiger,
And knockit three teeth oot my heid.
She flang a brick-bat through the window,
And clappit her hauns when I fell ;
While Vulcan crap under the table,
Tuir man, to take care o' himsel'.
She swore, and she tore, and she trampit.
The very grun shook where she stood,
Sae I fled to the bush for protection,
When the jaud was addressing the croud.
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126 P0£M8.
She was cheered and hurraed by the laddies,
But she gathered a lapfu' o' stanes ;
And she charged up the hill like a sodger,
And some got their pakes for their banes.
At last she got into a gully,
And wha did she meet but the deil ;
" My darling," says Nick, " you're a beauty,
My faith, but ye pelted them weel."
He claspit her fast to his bosom.
By jingo, he fell amang thorns.
For 'she lent him a yelp wi' her maulie,
That knockit off ane o' his horns.
He took to his heels, but she catched him,
And gied him a swing by the tail.
But it brak in her hand, and she left him
To tak' himsel' off by leg bail.
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POEMS. 127
OUE JOCK AT LAST MADE UP HIS MIND.
Our Jock at last made up his mind,
That he would change his life ;
And set himsel' wi' richt gude will,
To gang and seek a wife.
He ran abooi baith nicht and day,
'Mang rain and drifting snaw.
But still he got the same rebuff,
" Ye 're no for me ava."
He braggit o' his sheep and kye.
He braggit o* his Ian',
And took a bunch o* notes to shew
Whaurever he was gaun.
He got a suit o' braw new claes.
The real true Wilkie cut ;
But still he found ae door was closed.
Just as anither shut.
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128
At last he lichted on a lass,
He thocht micht serve his turn ;
She liv'd doun in a bonnie glen,
Beside a windin' bum.
But what he said I canna tell,
That flee sticks to the wa' ;
But she is Mistress Sae and Sae,
And gangs baith bein and braw.
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POEMS. 129
LOSH, JENNY, I'M GAXJN TO BE MAEEIED.
LosH, Jenny, I'm gaun to be married,
I was cried the last week in the kirk,
And my faither has gien me a present
0' a mare, a milk coo, and a stirk.
Sic buyin' and makin' o' dresses.
It would need a' the cash in the mint ;
Sic bakin' o' cakes and o' pastry,
It beats every thing in black print.
I'm to hae on a goun o' peach blossom,
Wi' a garland o' flowers in my hair,
Wi' white satin shoon and silk stockin's.
And my arms and my neck's to be bare.
Baith fiddlers and pipers are trysted.
My word ! but we'll ^ae a braw dance ;
So, Jenny, ye'U come to the weddin'.
Ye ne'er in your life had sic chance.
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130 POEMS.
There 's to be a braw lad frae Dunedin,
He's leamin' the dancin' wi' Lowe,
If ye tak' my advice, ye will get him,
As sure as the cap's on yer pow.
Sae Jenny 111 tak nae denial,
Sae gie me yer hand that yell gang,
It's time ye were makin' yer market,
There's nae use in waitin' ower lang.
Ye '11 be wantin' to ken wha I'm gettin',
I hae had my ain share o' gude luck.
For he's nane o' your common clod-happers.
That hauls nicht and day amang muck ;
For, woman, he's come o' the gentry,
And has a nice lisp when he speaks,
And he wears a goold ring on his finger.
And a strip doun the side o' his breeks.
They say that his uncle's a major,
And focht at the great Inkermann ;
And his aunty will leave him her fortune,
As sune as the body is gane.
Jenny, I'm greatly uplifted.
And I wish it was just fairly by,
Sae I'll bid ye guid nicht, dearest Jenny,
For I maun be aff for the kye.
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FORMS. 131
MSB OOT YOUR BED.
BisE oot your bed, ye worthless wretch,
The sun's far in the Uft,
I never kent a drunken man ,
That e'er cam muckje tjirift ;
See, IVe been up since morning grey
Amang the dirt and weet,
It taks it a', I weel I wat,
To gar the twa ends meet.
0, woman, will ye baud your -tongue.
My throat is like to crack,
Fling here my breeks, they're at the fire,
Hung ower the auld chair back.
What time di^ I come hame yestreen ?
It was a fearf u' nicht ;
For Guidsake gie's a nobbier,
'Twill maybe put me richt.
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1 32 POEMS.
weary on your nobblers,
Your drinking, and your splores,
And weary on your toun exploits,
Amang your drunken cores.
Ye '11 sure be in the newspapers,
And that ye '11 see ere lang,
They needna say Tarn Maut is dead
As lang's ye're fit to gang.
Noo steek your gab, yeVe said eneugh,
And what yeVe said's no true,
A pretty pickle ye'd be in
But for mysel' and plough.
Let's see a glass, or baud your tongue,
I want nane o' your strife,
'Tis pity yeVe got sic a man,
And I've got sic a wife.
And wha's the warst ane o' the twa,
Ye '11 maybe tell me that ?
It sets ye weel to lie up there.
And see me dreepin' wat,
Wi' fechting 'mang the shamey kye,
'Mang glaur up to the kuits,
Wi' scarce a sark upon my back.
My taes clean oot my buits.
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POEMS. 133
swear awa, just swear awa,
Ye canna bear the truth ;
Yell what ? yell rise and tak your nieve
And gie me ower the mouth:
But, Guidsake, here comes Craigielee,
Let's a' oor fauts conceal; —
" come awa, ye're welcome here,
Our Johnnie's no that weel."
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134 FOEHS.
VEESES,
COMPOSED ON THE PASSING OF THE REFORM BILL.
Ye 're welcome, Saunders, tak a seat,
Hae ye been at the toun, man,
And heard ye ony news ava.
As ye war comin' doun, man ?
Heard news ! quo' he, and gied a jump,
And struck the table wi' a thump ;
The boroughmongers, root and stump.
Are rooted oot, wi hanging snoot.
By England's noble King, man.
As I cam riding by the cross.
At sax o'clock at nicht, man,
Aboot the time the mail comes in,
I saw an unco sicht, man :
For thousands there on thousands stood,
Guid help 's, quo* I, what 's a' this croud ;
They dang and pushed each other rude,
While loud and lang, and stout and Strang,
Bells rang, and squibs and crackers flew, man.
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POEMS. 135
Then up cam roaring Geordy Smith,
And shook me by the hann, man,
Quo* he, there ne'er was sic a sicht
Sin* Scotland was a Ian', man :
The glorious news hae come at last,
In spite 0* a* the Bill has pass'd ;
Grae hame and tell your neighbours fast
The glorious truth, then quench yer drouth,
And drink Grod save the King, man.
Quo' he, we lang were sair oppressed,
Wi' slavery's gallin' chain, man ;
That squeesh'd oor noses to the grun',
Wi' mony a weary grane man :
But every dog has but his day.
And thanks to noble Brougham and G-rey,
Wha snapt the chain and cried, fair play.
And gart the loons wha wore the gouns,
Grae scart their croons, and meanly sneak awa, man
Most glorious news ! auld Bobin cried.
And jamp upon the flair, man ;
I havena heard the like o' that
This twenty year and mair, man ;
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136 POEMS.
And noo I think, before I dee,
I'll see my native country free ;
And thus wi' peace 111 close my e'e
Without a tear, o' dread or fear, for world's gear,
For that we a' maun dree, man.
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POEMS. 1 37
PUIR JOCK FLUNG DOUN HIS THRASHIN'
FLAIL.
Pi^iR JoOK flung doun his thrashin' flail,
And he would thrash nae mair.
But sat him doun to greet his fill,
The emblem o' despair !
He lang had woo'd a bonnie lass,
The lassie still was shy ;
At last she gied puir Jock the slip,
For Johnnie had nae kye,
Puir Johnnie maist gaed by himsel',
He couldna settle doun ;
But aye his heart cam to his mou',
And gied the other stoun'.
He couldna rest by nicht or day.
For a sair, sair heart had he ;
And ower his cheeks, like ammer beads,
The tears cam frae his e*e.
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138 FOEM&
weary on the heifer brutes,
And weary on the kye,
They gar our lassies ioss their heads,
And slight their joes — fie I
And weary on the love o' gear,
It breeds a weary strife.
It sears the heart, and curdles sour
The cup 0* human life.
But grief, like joy, has but its day, —
The tide will ebb and flow ;
And flowers will bloom on sunny banks.
Where thistles used to grow.
The heart that's sick may yet turn hale,
And lead a merry life ;
Sae Johnnie's grief cam to an end.
For Johnnie's got a wife.
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FOEHS. 189
STANZAS.
Inscribed to James Smith, Esq., Merchant, Dunedin.
When autumn's weary toils are past,
And winter comes wi' surly blast,
When out-door labours fail,
When through the glens great torrents rush.
When to the sea swollen rivers rush,
When drives the freezing hail :
Then friendly neighbours gather roun',
In harmless mirth their cares to drooli.
And hae a social crack ;
Around a fire that blazes fine,
Th#y tell the tales o' auld lang syne,
And years come rolling back.
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140 POEMS.
Then honest Jamie quits his flail,
Tho* joints are stiff, his heart is hale,
And young at threescore years ;
For mony stories he can tell,
About auld frien's, and 'bout himseF,
Which he in memory bears.
Ane starts a tune wi' sic an air,
It gars them jump up to the flair
To dance a Scottish reel ;
When Jamie catches bonnie Jean,
A handsome, sonsy, modest quean,
And loudly she does squeal.
But Jamie rubs her wi' his beard.
When Jeanie, wi' her nails unpared.
His haffets gies a claw :
" Tak' that," quo' she, " ye bairdy loon ;
See how ye've torn my russet goun ;
Awa, ye gowk, awal"
But noo ane tells a weary tale,
Hoo in a mist, 'mang sleet and hail,
Ower Flagstaff he did ride ;
And hoo he nearly de'ed wi' fricht,
And sleepit out the live-lang nicht
Upon the mountain side.
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POEMS. 141
They talk o' sheep, and speak o' kye,
The time to sell, the time to buy ;
Hoo prices come and gang ;
Hoo tnmips should be sawn or wede ;
Hoo cattle should be housed and fed ;
And then anither sang.
Wi' lengthened face, Jock gies a groan,
For Johnnie's peace, alas I is gone,
His heart is no his ain :
And Johnnie's love is no gaun smooth ;
He has nae kye his love to prove,
Which gies him mickle pain.
" Man, Jock," quo' Jamie, " but ye 're wae,
I've seen the day ye werena sae,
Ye 're gaun to skin and bane ;
But wad ye tak a frien's advice,
Ye'd never ask the lassie twice.
That only looks to gain."
Fern land, fell source o' grief and pain.
Enough to turn the stoutest brain.
Is next brought into view ;
But Tarn declares it's gude eneugh.
If duly wrought wi' trench and pleugh,
And left the winter through.
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14:2 P0EM8.
" It's gude eneugh V old W:^lie roared ;
" It's like whin-rock, ye^d need to bore't,
And blast it veel wi' poiuther ;
I never kent it yield a crap
Worth cutting down, or worth a rap ;
Ye 're raving a* thegither J"
Next politics are trotted out.
And richt and left they're bang'd dbout ;
Their blood is getting hot :
The tax on dogs they canna thole.
And swear, when next they're at the poll,
They'll send them a' to pot.
But Willie says, " Ye needna fash ;
Gret wha ye like, ye maun h^e cash ;
They're backit by the laiY ;
As lang's ye hae a ban© to pyke,
Yell never want a hungry tyke,
Wi' greedy tooth and claw."
But, Gruid be here I Tylwtt'p that o't noo?
Was that a dog, or was't a soo,
* I heard behint the door?
Dear me, it's Eobin fast asleep,
His head abune he couldna keep,
Sae he began to snore I
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posHs. 143
But now the moon glints o'er the hill,
Bricht shadows dance in ilka nil,
It's late, and they maun gang ;
Sae up they start, and to their feet,
But first resolve, when next they meet,
To hae anither sang.
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144 POEMS
TO MY OLD DOG DASH.
Inscribed to A. M'Leod, Esq., Merchant, Bnnedin.
PuiR Dash, thou 'rt getting auld and frail,
Nae mail thou wagg 'st thy bushy tail,
Whirlin 't aroun' like ony flail,
About thy rear ;
Nae mair thou jump'st ower ditch and rail,
Like ony deer.
Thou wert the terror o' the kye.
When haflins hid thou used to lie.
Watching the brutes when they cam nigh
The waving corn ;
Or when in stooks it stood to dry.
When it was shorn.
An honest heart beats in thy breast.
That's something rare 'mang men at least,
Wha look on honour as a jest,
Or useless folly ;
They mair deserve the name o' beast,
Than thou, puir collie !
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145
But, Dash, if thou could'st only read,
I'd let you see a bonnie screed,
Wad gar ye cock your tail and heid,
Wi' mickle grace,
How Poet Bums gied dougs their meed.
And proper place.
Then thou would 'st read o' noble Caesar,
Wha had a tail like ony beaver,
Hoo he at wicked men's behaVour,
Gried mony a rug.
T trow he was an unco shaver,
To be a doug.
And Luath, he was sic anither,
He lo'ed brave Caesar like a brither ;
And aften they wad crack wi* ither,
Sae frank and jolly.
But moum'd a world spoil'd a'thegither.
By mankind's folly.
The bairns will miss thee when thou'rt dead,
They'll mark the place whaur rests thy heid,
And doun their cheeks the crystal bead
Will sure distil;
Nae mair wi' them thou'lt tak the lead
Out ower the hill.
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146 POEMS.
Thou'st had thy time, and thou maun gang,
Whaur days are neither short nor lang ;
Nae future joy, nae future pang,
Hangs o'er thy heid ;
Nae fell account for daein' wrang
Hast thou to dreid.
But dougs and men maun yield to fate,
The gallant heart maun cease to beat ;
The humble clown, the lord of state,
Alike maun gang ;
Sae you and I maun tak the gate
Before its lang.
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POEMS. 147
WAE ON YE, JOCK.
WAE on ye, Jock, and yer weddin',
I wish I had broken my leg ;
'Twas there I fell in wi' oor Susy,
And noo we are " Watty and Meg ;"
Frae mornin' to nicht she is flytin',
Her tongue it will never lie still ;
It 's just the perpetual motion,
And gangs like the clack o' a mill.
When I think on the nicht that I socht her,
I'm like to jump oot o' my skin ;
But surely the penance Fm dreein'
Will cover a mountain o' sin.
'Twas just the last week, wi' the beetle
She very near flattened my nose ;
Next mornin' she scalded my whiskers,
Wi' a ladle o' boiling-het brose.
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148 ipoBMs.
When ance she gets up in a fury,
Nae mortal can then put her doun ;
Fire, sticks, and kettles o' water.
She dashes them a' at my croun.
Her nose is as red as a parten's,
Wi' een like a wild starin* cat ;
A voice like an auld cracket trumpet,
And a beard like the woo' on a bat.
Her wrath it begins in the momin'.
But disna gang doun wi' the sun
There 11 never be peace in the hallan,
'Till ance she's laid under the grun*.
And 0, but it wad be a pleasure,
To buy her a wudden surtoo ;
If ance I were quat o' the auld ane,
I'd tak precious gude care o' the new.
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POEMS. 149
aRUB AWAY, TUG AWAY.
The birds gang to rest when tir'd wi' their warblin',
But rest I get nane frae the momin' sae early ;
For either I'm mawin', or thrashin', or sawin',
Or grubbin' the hills wi' the ferns covered fairly.
G-rub away, tug away, toil till you're weary,
Haul oot the toot roots and everything near ye ;
Grub away, tug away, toil till you're weary.
Then take a bit dram, it will help for to cheer ye.
It's no* very pleasant this rough way o' livin'.
Sic tuggin', sic ruggin', it maks my banes crazy ;
And aye when I rest me the wife's tongue besets me,
Wi' "Gang to your wark, man, and dinna turn lazy."
Grub away, &c.
Bricht was my brow in life's early dawnin',
Licht was my heart as the blush of the momin' ;
Noo I am dull and wae, like a dark winter s day,
Deep in some glen where nae sun is adornin'.
Grub away, &c.
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ISO POEMS.
for the wings o' the swift flyin' eaglet,
Quick ower the sea I would hurry me early,
To the land o' the heather bell, mountain, and foggy
dell,
Land of the brave that my heart lo'es sae dearly.
Grub away, &c. x
Haste away, fly away, home to my fatherland,
Land of the thistle, and mountain, and river
Haste away, fly away, home to my fatherland.
There, on her bosom, I'd rest me for ever.
Grrub away, &c.
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P0EM8 151
HOO'S A' Wr YE, DEAE QOWAN HA'?
Hoo*8 a' wi' ye, dear Gowan Ha' ?
Hale be your heart without a flaw ;
And hoo's the wife sae trig and braw ?
And hoo's the Lily ?
Is Jamie scampering awa
Like ony filly ?
And hoo is L s, Jamie's brither,
Wi' heart sae warm just like his mither ?
I hae nae doot, as little swither,
He'll stan' the test —
There'6 naething bad can come whatever
Frae sic a nest.
Admonish him on ilka han'
That he maun neither curse nor ban,
And, when he comes to be a man.
Which sune he will,
To dae as muckle good's he can.
As little ill.
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152 POKM8.
So noo IVe named ye ane and a',
The worthy props o' Growan Ha' ;
Five Scottish hearts without a flaw
Is what I mak it ;
Nae wonder that ye crousely craw,
Ye 're finely backit,
I wish to Guid that I was near ye,
I*m aye sae glad to come and see ye,
And often IVe been vext to lea' ye
And gang awa.
Out o'er the hills sae dull and dreary,
To Warepa.
Fair fa' your manly, feeling heart,
That winna yield, or richt desert.
To ony low or dirty airt.
But, warm and leal,
Will act an honest, upright pairt,
As true as steel.
May peace and plenty wi' ye dwell,
Wi' love, the kernel o' the shell ;
May every breeze ower moor and dell
Bring blessings rare ;
May them that wrang ye hang themsel',
I dinna care.
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POEMS. 153
When tempests shake the forest green,
And biting winds blaw cauld and keen,
When on the taps o' hills is seen
The freezing snaw ;
Wann be your hearth, my trusty frien',
Grood Gowan Ha'.
As for myser, och hone a ree,
I'm toiling on wi' little glee ;
Since I was wi' ye feint a spree
Hae I been at,
And no a drap o' barley bree
My throat to wat.
Besides, I've nearly been distrackit
Wi' toothach, may Auld Clootie tak it,
A rotten stump my brain had rackit
Baith day and nicht,
'Till Doctor Manning oot did whack it,
And put me richt.
But fare ye weel, dear Growan Ha',
Tho' a' mankind stood in a raw,
And lowsed on ye their slandering jaw,
I'd there defend ye ;
I'd contradic' them ane and a', —
They didna ken ye.
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154 POEMS.
CLASHIN' JENNY TINKLEE.
cLASHiN* Jenny Tinkler,
Your tongue gangs like a bell ;
For tellin' lees and raising strife
Ye beat Auld Nick himsel'.
Ye weel deserve to ride the stang,
Or get a sousin' plump,
Or stap ye in a washin' boyne.
And on ye ca' the pump,
clashin' Jenny Tinkler,
Ye hae a fearfu' tongue.
For it can wag at baith the ends,
It's in the middle hung.
Five hundred lees, at least, a-week,
. Comes out o' your auld gab ;
And ilka ane's as sharp's a lance,
And gi'es a mortal stab.
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POEMS. 1 55
clashin' Jenny Tinkler,
Come, tell us a' the news, .
'Bout ilka lad that's to be wed.
Or wha's been on the boose ;
And wha's got ower the lugs in debt
Wi' his expensive wife ;
There's nane can tell't sae weel as you,
Or paint it to the life.
clashin' Jenny Tinkler,
Your saintship is a sham.
And ye're the last should speak o' drink,
Wha like sae weel a dram.
1 wish it was your only faut,
For that I could forgie ;
But ye hae ane I winna name,
Or some folk tell a lie.
clashin' Jenny Tinkler,
If ever ye should wed,
Well gather nettles for your sake,
To make your marriage bed ;
We'll get auld Nick to play the pipes,
And Jezebel we'll bring ;
A joint frae aff auld Satan's tail.
To mak' your weddin' ring.
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156 POEMS.
clashin' Jenny Tinkler,
We'll hae a marriage feast ;
And we'll sit doun to ilka thing
That comes o' bird or beast:
We'll hae a dish o' roasted cats,
Wi' nightshade stewed in gall ;
And Judas, he will say the grjice.
And ye'U commence the ball.
clashin* Jenny Tinkler,
We canna want dessert,
So ye maun get a serpent's tongue.
We'll bake it in a tart ;
Ye'll garnish 't weel with scandal crust.
And lees frae Satan's store.
Then serve it up wi' hemlock's sauce.
And then we'll sup galore.
clashin* Jenny Tinkler,
Then we maun hae a reel,
And I will face Queen Jezebel,
And ye will face the Deil ;
1 trow ye'll make a pretty pair,
A bonnie sicht to see ;
And then we'll ca' the drink aboot.
And carry on the spree.
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POBMfi. 157
NOG, JOCK, MY MA]^ SIT DOUN BY ME.
Noo, Jock, my man, sit doun by me,
And hearken to your mither.
Ye are my only bairn, I trou, —
I never had anither ;
And noo Fm tumin' auld and frail,
And weel advanced in life.
And I wad like, before I dee.
To see ye tak a wife.
For it's nae joke, it's nae joke,
The takin' o' the wife ;
Its " mak a spoon or spoil a horn,'
As lang as ye 're in life.
But dinna rin 'mang saucy queans,
Wi' rings upon their fingers.
That dress themselves frae tap to tae.
As sune's they've got their dinners ;
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158 POEMS.
But look for ane wi' siller, Jock,
Keep that aye in your view,
And wale for ane wi' rackle nieves.
And strength to hand a pleugh.
For it's nae joke, &c.
Gret ane can drub through dub and mire,
Wr muckle buits and tackets ;
Ane that can quell a mob o' kye.
When they kick up their rackets :
For beauty, lad, is but skin deep,^
An' I had ance my share o't,
Although, nae doubt, I'm altered sair,
I took sae little care o't.
For it's nae joke, &c.
And Jock, my man, when ye hae weans,
Ne'er fash wi' education ;
But pack them aff to herd the kye,
Or to some shepherd's station ;
An' see that ye get a' they win,
An* bring them up wi' rigour ;
Ne'er fash your thume although your bairns
Be hasthered like a nigger.
For it's nae joke, &c.
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POEMS. 1 59
And, oh I be honest, Jock, my man,
But, richt or wrang, get siller,
^* Bring a' your maut to me," ye ken,
Is an auld word o' the miller :
Then rug and rive, baith richt and left.
And aye keep up the happer ;
Folk's unco little thocht o', lad.
Unless they hae the capper.*
For it's nae joke, &c.
But, Johnny lad, keep out o' debt.
For that's a crying evil.
And flee frae drink and drucken rants.
That lead folk to the deevil.
Then yell get " Esquire" to your name
Frae folk that writes you letters.
And ye '11 get in the Council, lad.
And sit amang your betters.
For it's nae joke, &c.
But, Johnnie, ye maun shave your beard.
It maks ye unco gruesome ;
A horse's tail beneath your nose
Is onything but lo'esome.
♦ Copper money.
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160 POEMS.
It disna mak ye like a man,
But rather like a flunkey ;
I heard the bairns the ither day
Cry, " Yonder gangs the monkey."
For it's nae joke, &c.
It's weel eneuch when folk are rich,
It serves instead o' gumption ;
But in a simple working lad,
It 's silly, puir presumption.
Then mak a face that will be face,
For that will never fail you,
Cheek takes the place o' learning, lad,
Ye little ken its value.
For it's nae joke, &c.
And, Jock, hae nocht to dae with law.
It stangs where'er it touches,
Sae limbs o' law, and beadle loons, .
Keep ye out o' their clutches.
Sae, noo ye've gotten my advice.
See that ye baud it stedfast.
And I'll put on the parritch pat,
And let ye get your breakfast.
For it's nae joke, &c,
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POEMS. 161
OUR JOHNNIE GOT A STEOKE 0' LOVE.
Our Johnnie got a stroke o' love,
That made him gaunt and grue ;
He ne'er had been in love before,
Sae love to him was new.
And hoo to frame a lovin' speech,
It put him sair aboot ;
For Johnnie's head was rinnin' roun*,
As he had eaten toot.
love it is a weary job,
It's either kill or cure ;
But slighted love nae mortal man
Could ever yet endure.
His heart was set upon a lass,
A bonnie buxom quean ;
And fain was he to try his luck
Whaur mony mair had been.
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162 POEMS.
For Nanny was an unco toast,
As Nanny weel micht be ;
Her cheeks were red as ony rose,
And dark blue was her e'e.
love, &o.
Her mither was a widoVd wife,
Amaist as braw's hersel'.
And lang*d for some douce decent man,
Wr him to map and mell.
Sae when she saw our Johnnie's face.
She set hersel' to please,
And heezed him up wi' buttered scones,
And dauds o' bread and cheese.
love, &c.
Noo Johnnie thocht unto himsel',
'Twould maybe be as weel
To mak his choice whar he was sure
O' baith his maut and meal.
He got the widow's kind consent.
And ere the month was dune
Our Johnnie was a married man.
And held his honeymune.
love, &G.
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POEMS. 163
A blythsome time they had, I trow,
For Nanny was a bride ;
She'd got a lad mair like hersel'
Frae bonnie banks o' Clyde.
And noo they're happy, ane and a',
And blyther may they be ;
Sae here's to ilka bonnie lass,
Quo' John o' Craigielee.
love, &o
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164 POEMS.
THE aRUBBIN' O'T,
AiB — Duncan Gray,
Alas I the day I sair bewail,
Ha, ha, the grubbin' o't,
That e'er frae Scotland I set sail,
Ha, ha, the grubbin' o't.
It's grubbin' late, it's grubbin' sune,
Wat below and wat abune,
Grubbin' till I'm near stane blin',
, Ha, ha, the grubbin' o't.
It's naething o' a place ava,
Ha, ha, the grubbin' o't ;
It 's either ran or driftin' snaw,
Ha, ha, the grubbin' o't.
Tuggin' at the roots o' toot
Is richt sair wark, there's nae a doubt,
I wish New Zealand to Auld Cloot,
Ha, ha, the grubbin' o't.
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POEMS. 165
Livin' 'mang a savage crew,
Ha, ha, the grubbin' o't ;
Wi' faces scored baith blfick and blue,
Ha, ha, the grubbin' o't.
The Shirramuir was naething tilt,
Tho' thousands wounded were and kilt,
And bluid in torrents there was spilt,
Ha, ha, the grubbin' o't.
My claes are dune, my cash is gane,
Ha, ha, the grubbin' o't ;
There 's naething left but skin and bane,
Ha, ha, the grubbin' o't.
I wander here, I wander there,
And wring my hands in sad despair,
While in my grief I tear my hair.
Ha, ha, the grubbin' o 't.
When to New Zealand first I came,
Ha, ha, the grubbin' o't,
I wish ye'd only seen my wame,
Ha, ha, the grubbin' o't.
But look tilt now, alas ! alas !
The skin micht do to dry my face,
dear, it is a piteous case,
Ha, ha, the grubbin' o't.
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166 POEMS.
I'd raither than a siller croun,
Hji, ha, the grabbin' o %
That I were back to Edinbro' toon,
Ha, ha, the grubbin' o't.
I'd hae a gill, ye're sure eneugh,
Wi' worthy Mr Cattanach,
Then farewell grubbin'-hoe and pleugh,
Ha, ha, the grubbin' o 't.
Hearken noo, ye growlin' crew.
Ha, ha, the grubbin' o't ;
I've changed my mind, and sae should you.
Ha, ha, the grubbin' o't.
For I've begun the cooper trade,
And working next to Gallie's shed.
Where horses are baith shod and bled,
Ha, ha, the grubbin' o't.
Baith cogs and kirns I mak wi' glee.
Ha, ha, the grubbin' o't ;
I tap the barrels and taste the bree.
Ha, ha, the grubbin' o't.
And lately I hae bocht a coo.
It's alter'd days wi' me, I trou,
I'm getting fat, and whiles I'm fou.
Ha, ha, the grubbin' o't.
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167
An honest man may tak a dram,
Ha, ha, the grubbin' o*t ;
The Maine Law League is a' a sham,
Ha, ha, the grubbin' o't.
There's some folk say they canna pree.
That tak their dram as weel as me,
Aweel, aweel, ssie let it be,
Ha, ha, the grubbin' o't.
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168
AS I CAM THRO' THE WAIKERA GLEN.
As I cam through the Waikera glen,
All in an autumn gloamin',
My heart was licht and fancy free,
Nae thocht had I o' roamin'.
But there I met a bonnie lass.
She set my heart a dancin' ;
The blood ran riot through my veins,
Like nettled steeds a prancin'.
Her cheek was like the bloomin' rose,
Her een as black's a raven ;
Although 'twas but a moment's glance,
It's in my heart engraven.
For love will mak the bauldest man
Bend at the shrine of beauty ;
There's honour in the homage paid,
It's a commanding duty.
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POEMS. 169
But fancy free was I nae mair,
For Cupid had me fairly ;
His dart it pierced my heart rioht thro',
And noo I'm altered sairly.
But should this nymph prove kind and leal,
My heart will bound with rapture,
When led by Hymen's silken cord,
Fast bound unto my captor.
Awa frae me, ye heartless crew,
That lo'e nae bonnie lasses ;
Ye gat your due frae minstrel Burns,
Wha ca'ed ye senseless asses.
I trow he lo'ed the bonnie dears,
As seen in mony a sonnet ;
He wadna pass a bonnie lass
Till he took aff his bonnet.
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170 POEMS.
AULD SANDY GAED TO SEEK A WIFE.
AuLD Sandy gaed to seek a wife
In yonder bonnie dell ;
He left his wark just as the clink
Cam frae Dunedin bell.
Quo' he, " I wish this job were past,
An' a' things settled richt,
Sae I will pop the question pat.
And that this very nicht.
"What tho' I'm saxty years or sae !
That's no sae very auld ;
What tho' my head's as white as snaw
What tho' my bluid is cauld !
Hae I no gotten goud and gear
To keep a' snug and ticht ?
Sae 111 be aff or on wi' her,
And that this very nicht.
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POKMB. 171
" What tho' I canna talk o' love,
And ken na how to woo !
I canna speak o' violets sweet,
Or roses wat wi* dew !
But I can speak o' nowt and kye,
By far a better sicht,
And I'll be aff or on wi' her.
And that this very nicht.
" They say she loes anither chieF
That's younger far than me ;
But what o' that ! the silly coof s
No worth a broun bawbee.
Wi' this lang purse o' yellow boys
I'll tempt her wi' the sicht,
Sae 111 be aff or on wi' her.
And that this very nicht.
" I canna say that I'm in love.
And yet there's something queer
Plays pitty patty at my heart —
It's cowardice I fear.
But come what will, it maun be done,
Tho' I should get a slight,
Sae I'll be aff or on wi' her,
And that this very nicht."
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172 POEMS.
WILLIE, WILLIE, MY aUDEMAN.
Willie, Willie, my gudeman !
quit your weary drink !
1 wonder what the warld ye mean —
1 wonder what ye think.
. Ye see your place gaun a' to wreck,
The claes gaun aff your back,
And yet yell sit, and roar, and sing.
And spend your hinmost plack.
Willie, Willie, my gudeman !
Just see the plight I'm in ;
My claes are hangin' a' in rags.
My taes are through my shoon.
There's no a wife aboot the place
But I think shame to see ;
They're a' sae bien and happy like —
At least, compared wi' me.
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POEMS. 173
Willie, Willie, my gudeman !
Look to your duddie bairns ;
They're rinnin' wi' their bluidy feet.
Half naked, through the ferns.
You pledged your troth to be to them
A faither and a frien' ;
And your ain conscience tells your heart
That's what ye haena been.
Willie, Willie, my gudeman !
I lo'e ye still the same ;
And happy, happy wad I be,
Gin ye wad stay at hame,
And seek the joys ye socht lang syne,
When gladsome was your e'e.
When ye sat by your ain fireside.
And kindly smiled on me.
quit your thriftless weary drink —
It smiles but to deceive ;
It nerves the heart to a,' that's bad,
And gladdens but to grieve.
And mony a head has it laid low
In dark disgrace, I ween.
And sorrow brought to mony a door
Where gladness should hae been.
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174 POEMS.
The serpent's sting lurks in the cup,
Night's deadly shade, and gall ;
The dragon's blood, the hemlock's juice,
Is mingled with it all.
The broken heart, the haggard look,
With death, walks in the train :
Willie, quit your weary drink.
And never taste again !
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-.^ff^-^
POEMS. 175
OF ALL THE LIVES I KNOW.
Of all the lives I know of,
The bachelor's is the best,
For when he feels that he is tired.
He sits him doun to rest.
No squalling and no bawling,
From wife or wean, has he.
Of all the lives I know of,
A bachelor's for me.
The bfichelor's a happy man.
He leads a merry life ;
For he can call his house his ain,
He has no scolding wife.
He puts his cap upon his head,
And whistles on his way ;
There is no one can keep him back,
No one can make him stay.
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176 poEMb.
The world is all the bachelor's —
He cares not where he roam ;
Where'er he sees a pretty place,
He can make it his home.
If love should come to trouble him,
He drowns it in a can.
There's no life like a bachelor's,
For he's a happy man.
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POEMS. 177
HER NAINSEL' TO NEW ZEALAND CAM.
Tune — Johnny Chraham, the Packman.
Her nainsel' to New Zealand cam,
Without a prown bawbee, man ;
She'll turn a shepherd to her trade,
An' got the muckle fee, man.
She'll sairt her maister weel eneugh,
And then shell thocht it fair, man,
When every year was runnin' dune,
She'll aye be socht it mair, man.
An' then shell got her twa three coos,
Will soon pe turn a trove, man ;
Shell got nae rent to pay the laird,
But o'er the hills they'll rove, man.
An' then she'll got hersel' a farm
To grow the wheats an' com, man ;
An' then she'll got the bonnie stacks
As soon's shell got them shorn, man.
M
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178 POEMS,
An' then she'll Biggit hersel' a house,
Betheikit a' wi' strae, man ;
She'll got nae stanes to big the wa's,
Except the yeUow clay, man.
An' then she'll thocht she'll got a wife
To mend her hreeks an' hose, man ;
But when she'll go to see the lass,
They'll a' turn up their nose, man.
The lassies a' aboot this place,
They'll a' be unco shy, man ;
Its no the mans they want ava'.
But joost the sheeps and kye, man.
For if you'll no hae sheeps and coos
They'll thocht yer nocht ava', man,
Although ye was the brawest lad
The sun was ever saw, man.
It's no the way in my countree,
Whaur blooms the heather bell, man,
Whaur lassies tak the lads they like.
An' a' for love itsel', man.
there they'll spend the happy days,
And poo the nits and slaes, man.
And there they'll brew the mountain dew
On bonnie Eannoch Braes, man.
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POEMS. 179
But noo, my lads, tak my advice, —
You'll maybe got a waur, man, — ^
You're no to drink till ye get fou,
An' tumble in the glaur, man ;
You're no to turn teetotaller.
Like ony Yankee loon, man ;
An' never tak the water cure,
In case you'll got the droon, man.
siller makes a wise, wise man, —
The want o't makes a fool, man ;
It gars the puir man hing his head.
The honest wife cry dool, man ;
For when you're rich folk ken ye weel.
Your back aa weel's your face, man ;
But when you're poor they'll shut the door,
Faith that's an altered case, man.
Sae noo TU bid ye a' " gude nicht,"
An' joy be wi' ye a', man ;
We mauna try to flee ower heigh.
In case we'll get a fa', man ;
For drinkin' deep's a canker worm
That nips the bloom o' life, man ;
A toom meal barrel breeds mony a quarrel.
And flUs a house wi' strife, man.
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180 POEMS.
An' noo, I think, 111 say nae mair,
But only this I'll tell, man,
That every decent, honest man
Should look weel to himsel', man.
But when you're mindin' number one,
Let honour be your law, man ;
Whaure'er you gang, mind Bums's sang,
" A man's a man for a'," man.
Sae noo, my lads, tak aff your dram,
An' sing your loyal sang, man,
We'll drink the health o' our gude Queen,
And may she reign fu' lang,^ man ;
We'll drink to absent frien's at hame.
Though noo we're far awa', man ;
An' here's to every bonnie lass
That's better than she's braw, man.^
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POEMS. 181
FY LET US A' TO THE DINNEK.
Tune — Fy let u% a' to the bridal,
Fy let US a' to the dinner,
The ticket it's only a pound,
To dine wi' the lords o' creation.
An' nane. o' your low derry down ;
An' then we will sit in our glory,
Ilk man wi' his bottle o' wine —
Champagne, port, sherry, and claret,
That comes frae the banks o' the Ehine.
An' there'll be roast-beef an' plenty
To swall oursel's out like a drum,
An' there'll be draps o' gude brandy
To help the digestion of some ;
An' when that our dinner is finished
They'll bring in a noble dessert —
Plumpuddins wi' weel-baket apples,
An' platefu's o' cream an' o' tart.
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182
The chairman will then crave a bumper
To drink the gude health o' our Queen,
Wi' a speech a mile lang and a quarter,
An' the cannon will fire on the green !
An' then there'll be hip, hip, hurraing —
We'll frighten the birds o' the air :
Waes me for the puir workin' bodies
That hadna the cash to get there.
His Excellency's health will be toasted
Wi' mony a hip, hip, hurra ;
But I hope^it'U never be mentioned
We eer signed the Maine, Liquor Law I
We'll boast o' our high moral standin' —
The workin' folk keept out o' view,
An' then we will toast ane anither
Wi' " Claw me an' I will claw you."
An' then we maun drink to His Honor —
Great ruffin' and cheerin' we'll mak ;
But we'll never let out the bit secret,
How weel he's misca'd to his back.
We'll no say a word to displease him —
Deception 's the rule o' the day ;
An' ye ken we're commanded in Scripture,
To honour the head that is grey.
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POEMS. 183
There'll neither be masons nor tailors,
Nor fleshers nor souters to boot,
Nor nane o' the sons o' auld Vulcan,
Wi' faces as black as the soot.
Our ain noble sel's we will cherish
For ance in our lives by our lane.
An' then we can flatter the rabble
When ance the great man has gane hame.
The vulgar blue-sarkit clodhoppers,
On our feast they would bring a disgrace,
To smoke cutty pipes in our presence.
An' blaw their black reek in our face.
It does a' very weel at elections,
Whan folk mauna be unco nice ;
Whan ye're wantin' to win at backgammon
You mauna cast oot wi' the dice.
That chiel frae the Upper Waikari,
His farm it is ca'd Craigielee ;
We winna let him to the dinner.
For he ne'er can let bodies abee.
Nae doot but hell mak a bit sang on't,
To sing to his ane dyvour crew ;
He'll sing't at the Bums' Anniversary,
When ance they hae drunk themsel's fou' !
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184 POEMS.
THE PLOUaHBOT HE COMES OWER THE
HILL.
The ploughboy he comes ower the hill,
And kindly smiles on me ;
weel I lo'e the ploughman lad,
Sae loving is his e'e.
He blythely hands the crookit plough,
And turns the flowery lea ;
I'll lo'e my gallant ploughboy
Until the day I dee.
soon I'll be his wedded wife,
Ae house will baud us baith ;
I'll lo'e my gallant ploughboy
As lang as I hae breath.
And every penny that he wins
I'll try to mak it twa ;
I'll never envy great or high.
While love reigns in the ha'.
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POEMS. 185
weary on the cauldrife e'e
That never sheds a tear ;
And weary on the canlder heart
That's hooht wi' gowd or gear.
For a' the gowd that e'er was seen
I wadna sell a smile ;
I'd rather hae the lad I lo'e,
Wi' never-ending toiL
love will mak the darkest day
Seem hricht as summer mom,
When scented breezes fill the dell,
Frae aff the blooming thorn.
Sae I will lo'e the ploughman lad
That's my gudeman to be,
For weel I ken his heart is leal,
Sae loving is his e'e.
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186 POEMS.
WHEN DATS AEE SHORT AND NIGHTS
ARE LANG.
Whkk days are short and nichts are lang,
I sit me doun to tmte a sang
In hamely Scottish jingle ;
It helps to break a weary thought,
It reconciles me to my lot,
And to my homely ingle.
When on a theme my muse has got,
I sing o' glens and clay-built cot.
Of lassies leal and kind ;
I sing how Jock maist dee't for Kate,
He was sae bashfu' and sae blate.
And couldna speak his mind.
•
On virtuous love I'll tune my lyre.
But, O, I want poetic fire
To bring it full in view ;
But 'tis the very soul o' man,
Let him gainsay, deny wha can
That what I've said's untrue.
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POEMS 18Y
I sing the ups and doons o' life,
Of wedlock's joy and wedlock's strife,
Of flowers and summer days.
Vile scandal, too, I sometimes lash,
I send the drunkard's glass to smash,
Foul vice I never praise.
But noo I'm noddin' in my chair.
And I this nicht can write nae mair,
I'll aff into my nest,
And tiU with glorious purple ray
Comes forth the golden god of day,
My weary hanes I'll rest.
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188 POEMS.
SEE TONDEE POOE DEJCECTED WEETCH.
See yonder poor dejected wretch
ThraDg speaking to himser,
And so he may, for he has been
T^ree weeks upon the gell ;
See how he shakes his matted locks,
And grasps at vacant air ;
See how he's stampin' wi' his feet,
And tearin' at his hair.
His een are rowin' in his head,
His throat is parched and dry,
His former frien's neglect him noo,
With scorn they pass him by ;
Ah ! what a change from what he was,
When, roun' his ain fireside.
He loved to see his children play
With all a father's pride.
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POEMS. 189
But noo he's like a shattered bark
Whose rudder has been lost,
And drifting thro' the foamin' surge
On some wild rocky coast ;
It is a humblin' sight to see
A man on ruin's brink,
Debasin' soul and body baith
For cursed love o' drink.
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190 FOlEMB.
I WONDER WHAT USE THERE 'S IN
SMOKING
I WONDER what nse there's in smoking,
In hlawing black reek out your mouth,
Embalming your face like a mummy,
And parching your wizen wi' drouth ;
And snuflBng's a vile, dirty custom ;
I've seen an auld wife making brose,
When she steer'd roun' the meal in the cogie,
The snuff-draps fell in frtie her nose.
Noo, chewing tobacco's nae better,
Wi' love it can never agree,
To wives it's an even-doon scunner,
Awa' wi' your vile breath frae me ;
When mixed wi' the fumes o' the whisky,
'Twould do for the smooring o' bees ;
But, to mak it complete, eat raw onions.
Or garlic, whichever you please. '
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POEUS. 191
The siller that's spent on tobacco
Would buy mony a bonnie silk gown ;
And to tell you the truth, it's the ladies
Brings ony great fame to the town.
Men really are comical creatures,
And woman's the queerest ava',
But the man that's no fond o' the lasses.
His heart's just a region o' snaw.
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192 POBMS.
BUT SILLEE'S BONNIE !
BUT siller's bonnie ! but siller's gran' !
Grudesake gie us siller-^that's what maks the man ;
It maks a lass a beauty 'till she's made a wife,
Then it's bonnie siller, cordial balm o' life.
What a power has money, stronger far than steel !
See the mighty noble like a beggar kneel
To the man of money, greedy as a Jew,
Now he wants to borrow, see him beck and boo.
Grudesake gie us siller, it opens every door,
It maks a body welcome that never was before ;
the satisfaction the rich man only feels,
When ither men are ruin'd, couping ower the creels !
How to get this siller, try each wily quirk,
Hypocrisy's the fashion, aye gang to the kirk,
Banish kindly feeling, turn dull honour oot,
Keep frien's wi' the deevil, he has lots o' loot.
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POEMS. ' 193
Never help a neighbour — that would spoil your plan —
Rather try to pluck him, every way you can ;
But, whane'er you meet him, ask if he be weel,
Talk o' Christian duties, what you never feel.
Noo, we'U suppose that gold you've got to your heart's
content.
That thousands you have banked, and thousands you
have lent ;
What is a' the worth o't, unless it's backit weel
Wi' honesty and honour, true as pointed steel ?
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194 F0SM8.
COMB, TIHiI, ME WHA'S THE BONNIEST
LASS.
Come, tell me wha's the bonniest lass
About Dunedin town ?
There's lovely Nancy o' the hill,
Wha's face micht buy a crown;
And then there's bonny Mary Ann,
Wf diamonds in her een ;
Or is it stately Margaret,
By nature made a queen ?
Come* is it Mary o' the glen,
Wha's cheeks bloom like the rose
That by some crystal fountain
In nature's beauty blows ?
Or is it fairy Isabel,
Whose beauty is divine ?
Or bonnie Annie o' the grove.
Whose heart is Cupid's shrine ?
I doubt, I doubt, ye canna guess —
They are beauties ane and a' ;
And I can swear, wi' conscience cleaJ:,
They're better than they're braw.
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' V-
POEMS. 1 95
THERE'S NAE HARM IN LIKING THE
LASSES.
There 's nae hann in liking the lasses,
That's natural enough to be sure,
When honour and virtue's the motto,
Wi' love that is fervent and pure.
There's nae harm in innocent daffin'.
It's gude for the young and the auld ;
And a wee drap o' speerits, gude neighbours.
Is gude for the bluid when it's cauld.
The man that despises fair virtue,
Is warn than a madman or fool ;
So stick to true blue, my gude neighbours.
The colour that's dyed in the wool ;
The man that gets rich by deceivin'
Will die a poor man at the last ;
So there's naething like stickin* to honour.
And nailin'iit firm to the mast.
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196 POEMS..
BE KIND TO THY FATHER.
Be kind to thy father:
Thou knowest not the cares
That have furrowed his cheek
And thinned his grey hairs ;
Thou knowest not the pangs
That his proud heart has rung
When struggling for thee,
And thou wert but young.
Be kind to thy father:
He was kind unto thee,
Though his step now be feeble,
And dim is his e'e.
And trembling the hand
That once led thee with pride.
When first thou attempted
To walk by his side. ^
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POEMS. 197
Be kind to thy mother:
She doated on thee
When thou slept on her bosom
Or lay on her knee ;
And weary and wan
She did watch o'er thy rest ;
Be kind to thy mother,
And thou shalt be blest.
Be kind to thy mother
When thy father is gone,
Speak gently and kind
When her poor heart is lone ;
Thy love she will reckon
More precious than gold.
And 'twill be better for thee
When thou, too, art old.
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^
198 POEMS.
I WONDER WHAT IN THIS CREATION.*
I wonder what in this Creation
Maks a' this din on education,
It taks, for bairns o' lowest station,
Twa pounds a-year ;
It's nocht but dounricht ruination,
And waste o' gear.
I ken a trick worth twa o' that ;
A lump o' beef in the kail pat
Is better far, I weel I wat.
Than trash o' books.
Send leamin' to the dog and cat,
Gie's heavy stocks.
* In this satirical poem the author intends only to represent,
in his own ironical style, the selfish and grovelling feelings of
those who, without education themselves, see no necessity for
imparting it to others, and devote all their energies to the mere
acquisition of money, of which there are many in a new colony
like New Zealand, where labour is often of more account than
learning.
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POEMS. 199
There's Jock, wha is a shepherd noo,
Can break a horse or haud a plough ;
When ten years aold he had a coo,
A dainty beast ;
Now he has twenty bead, I trow,
A' that at least.
Wee Davie, too, has got a mare,
Ah I he's the lad can speak o' gear ;
He's out at twenty pounds a year,
Wi'MaisterWool;
And Davie, troth ye needna speer.
Ne'er saw a school.
There's Jenny, too, we oouldna want her,
So to a school we never sent her,
But ony ane that ever kent her
Will say it's true,
When sax year auld I could hae sent her
To milk a coo.
While I hae sheep, and bulls, and kye,
And gude fat porkers in the sty,
Wi' jaups o' milk and pails o' whey
To fatten swine ;
A fig for books and schools, quo' I,
Or leamin' fine.
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200 POEMfl.
The like o* us hae little time
To waste on books, or prose, or rhyme.
Especially in foreign clime
Like oor Otago,
Whaur gude milk kye and bullocks fine
Is a' we brag o'.
For I like to speak o* bruits,
And wade in muck up to the kuits ;
On taties, too, the best o' roots,
I pass my skill ;
But schules may gang to Daddy Cloots,
Wi' my gude will.
Instead o' books gie me gude kail,
Wi' gude fat beef at every meal.
Then see how I will swing a flail
About my head.
Or draw a coo up to the bail
In time o' need.
Some say that I can lee and cheat.
And practise arts o' black deceit ;
By some I'm ca'd a hypocrite.
When to the kirk
I trudge twa miles through mud and weet
Micht smuir a stirk.
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POEMS. 201
But clashin' folks maun hae their clash,
The like o' them gie me nae fash,
For what are they? the lowest trash
In this creation,
Wha think it richt to spend their cash
On education.
But 0, it rings my very heart !
To think this world and me maun part.
That I maun fa' heneath the dart
0, cruel Death ;
The very thocht o't gars me start,
And stops my breath.
My very heart is set on gear ;
Were I to live a hunder year,
I'd rug, and rive, and smash, and tear,
Baith nicht and day ;
But I feel life's tear and wear !
I'll hae to gae.
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202 roEMB.
TO MESSRS S— Tfi, & M -LL.
I WANT of tobacco the worth of a pound.
With the West Clutha Postman
Please just send it down ;
For it cheers up my heart
As I sit by the fire,
And its smoke floats apart
With the tones of my lyre.
Tho' 'twill aU end in air,
Like the dreams of my youth,
I can dream them again as I puff from my mouth.
Tis the way of the world.
And I've had my say ;
Tho' I wont say farewell,
I must bid you good day.
Postscript
Tho* I'm getting as blind as a mole or a bat,
I'm not quite so poor as a church mouse or rat,
Tho' I'm not quite as rich as great Rothschild the
Jew,
T still pay my way and I mean so to do.
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POEMS. 203
MAGGY HAD MADE TIP HER MIND.
Maggy had made up her mind,
At least it has been said,
That she wad leeve a single life,
And dee a donee anld maid.
She was a bonnie soncy lass,
And dark bine was her een ;
But hoo she keepit her resolve
Remains yet to be seen.
She had a house was plenished weel,
A perfect treat to see,
Por everything within the wa's
Was just where it should be.
And at the cozie ingle neuk.
There stood an easy chair ;
The mantlepiece was weel laid out
Wi* costly china ware.
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20^ POEMS.
But Cupid was resolved on fun,
And fun he but to hae ;
A change cam ower puir Maggy's face,
And but she was wae.
She couldna rest, she couldna sleep,
Although she sair did try ;
Whe^i neebors spier'd if she war ill,
She answered wi' a sigh.
Noo, lasses, dinna sneer at this.
It's nocht but gospel truth ;
Te say there's nae sic thing as love —
Noo shut that bonnie mouth.
It wasna made for tellin' lees,
Altho' it may beguile,
Te canna look me in the face.
For laughin' a' the while.
But to the point, where was I at ?
In Maggy's parlour snug,
The kettle sang a merry sang,
The cat purr'd on the rug.
A gentle tap cam to the door.
When in cam elder John ;
He wasna very weel himsel*.
And sat doun wi* a moan.
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POEMS. 205
He lookit into Maggy's face,
The tear was in her e'e ;
He took her han* and sighin' said,
" Maggy, pity me."
You're lookin' ill, and I'm no weel,
There's love between us twa ;
If you'll be mine, my bonnie dear,
I'll mak it gude in law.
Poor Maggy's heart beat hard and fast,
It flutter'd like a bird ;
A crimson blush was on her cheek.
She scarce could speak a word.
Then John grew bauld, he pree'd her mou'.
And that wi' richt gude will ;
Maggy, say that you'll be mine.
She falter'd, " Yes, I will."
They had their happy courtin' time,
But that cam to an end.
For Maggy gaed to Johnnie's house,
A helping hand to lend.
As man and wife, a happier pair
Otago never saw,
And Johnnie says he's got a wife
As gude as she is braw.
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206 POEMS.
NOO QUAT TOUE FIDDLIN' AND YOUK
FUN.
Noo quat your fiddlin' and your fun,
Your concerts^ balk, a^d races,
And bid good bye, tho' e'er sae dry,
To gin and brandy causes.
The " unco guid,'' with sturdy wrath,
Hae sworn to banish drinkin' ;
'Tis pity but they had the power.
And faith they'd banish thinkin'.
Nae doubt, they are baith meek and mim,
0' liberal men a sample,
But yet they tak their wee bit dram,
Eegardless o' example.
But ony puir, wayfarin' man,
Tho' dreepin' wat and weary.
Must trudge alang, without a can
To mak his heart mair cheery.
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POEMS. 207
Just see them in their cozy ha's,
Thrang brewin' at their toddy,
They never think on you or me,
Or ony travellin' body.
If usquebagh be sic a curse,
What deevil gars them tak it ?
An't wema them, and such 9a them,
The feint a ane would mak it.
There's little doubt ower muckle cash
Is spent in buying noblers.
While hypocrites drink on the sly,
And tipple sherry cobblers.
But noo they're at it tooth and nail,
Wi' perfect zeal they're shakin'.
While villain spies stand at their backs,
And publicans are quakin'.
It's better to be plain at ance —
It's carnal power they're wantin' ;
To rule the roast on every hand,
£y nicht and day, they're pantin'.
It soon would be a bonnie place.
If they had but the guidin' ;
They'd feed us a' on beans and bran,
And hap oor backs wi' plaidin'.
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208 POEMS.
THE BEAGLES THEY CAME BOUND ABOUT.
The beagles they came round about,
And at our doors are calling 0,
To see how many dogs we hae,
Or cats a-caterwauling 0.
Green grow the flaxes 0,
Green grow the flaxes ;
Gae cast your coats and thrash your oats,
It's a* to pay the taxes 0.
The strong they trample on the weak,
And honest worth o'er raxes ;
For worldly goods, thro' fires or floods.
The langest arm aye catches 0.
Green grow, &c.
There's some sae big they will not dig,
Tho' scarcely worth a stiver ;
They think it best to tak their rest,
And live upon their neighbours 0.
Green grow, &c.
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209
There's some would lick the very dust
To keep them free from labour ;
And to the great they'd cringe and sneak,
To get a glance o' favour 0.
Green grow, &c.
shame upon the lazy drone,
"When days are warm and sunny ;
When others strive to stock the hive,
They only lick the honey 0.
G-reen grow, &c.
But here's to every honest man,
May plenty still be near him !
And in his need find friends indeed.
To back him and to cheer him !
Green grow, &c.
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210 POEMS.
FEAGMENT.
The sky was black with thunder clouds,
And loud the tempest blew ;
The ship was toss'd, her course was lost,
As o'er the waves she flew.
Her sails were furl'd, and wild waves curl'd
And swept her rolling deck ;
They sound the well ; then rose a yell —
The ship has sprung a leak.
Now man the pumps, my gallant men.
There's hope while life may last.
A sea washed right from stem to stem —
Creish went the rocking ma«t.
Dread thunder peal'd, the ship now reel'd,
She was a dismal wreck ;
The waters rolFd within her hold.
And stronger grew the leak.
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POEMS. 211
The captain true stood by his crew,
His heart was British oak.
His seamen were both stout and bold,
Come of true British stock.
Stand to the pumps, my gallant men.
Hew down that other mast ;
In England yet, my gallant boys.
Our anchor we will cast.
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212 POEMS.
OTAOO GOES AHEAD, MY BOYS.
Otago goes ahead, my boys,
In country and in town ;
There's not a snugger bit of land
Beneath the British crown.
It is indeed a favour'd spot.
The Emerald of the south ;
There's peace and plenty in her gates,
There's bread for every mouth.
With steady hearts and willing hands.
From day to day we toil ;
The bread is sweet that labour brings,
Where 'tis our own the soil.
Then why should men remain at home.
Who live from hand to mouth ?
Why don't they leave the sterile north,
And seek the balmy south ?
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J
213
'Tis not a place for those whose hands
Are only made for gloves ;
The eagle's nest is not a home
For nightingales or doves.
'Tis British blood and British bone
That only can succeed ;
The sluggard or the exquisite
Is but a noxious weed.
Then come along, my merry men,
Our fair Otago see ;
It is a glorious retreat
For honest poverty.
It is a place of health and strength,
No workhouse to be seen ;
And honest men soon stand upright
That bowed down have been.
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214 POEMS.
WHAT'S WKANG WF OUR JAMIE?
What 's wrang wi' our Jamie ?
The laddie 's no weel ;
I'm wae for our Jamie,
The braw, etrappin' chiel.
Noo he wanders alane,
Thro' yon dark bushy dell ;
Waes me for our Jamie,
The lad 's no himseF.
What 's wrang wi our Jamie ?
His peace it is fled ;
And he sighs the lang nicht.
As he lies in his bed.
Nae langer he sings.
As he turns up the lea ;
But he hangs doon his head,
Wi' the tear in his e'e.
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POEMS. 215
It isna for naething
That Jamie's heart's sair,
That he 's wringin' his han's
And tearin' his hair.
It isna for naething ;
There 's something far wrang ;
The laddie 's in love,
That's the short and the lang.
wae on ye, Cupid,
Your how and your dart ;
. Could naething less ser* ye,
But hreak Jamie's heart.
Flee doun to yon valley.
Your how gie a hend.
Pierce young Jeanie's heart.
And then Jamie's will mend.
Come cheer up, man, Jamie,
And lilt us a sang ;
" It's doun in yon valley
The green woods amang ;"
Or " it's ower yonder hill.
And its through yonder dell ;"
Come cheer up, man, Jamie,
Be ance mair yoursel*.
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216
MAN, BUT YE 'BE A CLEVER CHIEL.
MAN, but ye 're a clever chiel,
It maks ye braw and sets ye weel,
To mak yourser a perfect deil.
Your hame a hell.
When frae the toun ye hameward reel,
And on the gell !
Ye 're noo a bonnie speculation,
It g«irs me greet wi' sheer vexation,
To see ye gaun to ruination,
Clean ower the sclate,
Wr nocht but blackest ruination.
For me, puir Kate.
Ay, there ye sit and curse and swear,
Kegardless o' your baimies dear,
Regardless when the briny tear
Draps frae my e'e ;
It's mair than human flesh can bear,
Guid pity me.
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POEMS. 217
When fell remorse knocks at your heart,
And conscience wakes wi' fearfu' start,
When fearfu' Death comes wi' his dart.
And lays you low,
How will ye answer for the part
You Ve played below.
A drunkard's death's a fearfu' end,
Shame, fear, remorse, assistance lend,
While horror does their conscience rend,
Wi' scorpion sting ;
Torturin' the soul that 's past amend.
Ere it taks wing.
Willie, mind the happy days
We spent on Scotia's heathery braes,
Where doun ilk glen the bumie plays,
'Mang scenes sae fair ;
But noo ye're changed in a' your ways.
And altered sair.
Just look that lammie in the face.
That clings to me wi' fond embrace,
And will ye bring doun black disgrace
On sic a treasure ;
think upon it's piteous case,
And mind its mither.
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218 POKMH,
TAM MAUT WAS FOU' WHEN HE CAM HAME.
Tam Maut was fou' when he cam hame,
He had been at the toun ;
And to his bed he wadna' gang,
Nor yet wad he sit doun.
He took the gudewife's spinnin' wheel,
And flang it to the door ;
He took the bonnie lookin' glass,
And smashed it on the floor.
He next flew at the crockery ware,
That stood upon a shelf,
Braw china cups and china flets,
Wi* coarser ware o' delf.
He brocht them doon wi' sic a smash,
It was a pretty sicht.
And then he danced fu' merrily.
To get them broken richt.
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POEMS. 219
He next flew at the mickle kirn,
" Face me noo, Meg," quo' he ;
Ye never was the woman yet.
Could shake your fit like me.
Play up the reel o' HuUachan ;
Come, here goes toe and heel ;
Noo richt and left, noo set, noo set,
Keel noo, ye deevils, reel.
It chanced the kirn wi' butter milk
Was half fu' to the brim ;
And roun' and roun' about he danced,
Frenzy in every limb.
Play up, ye lazy fiddler,
I'm no the first will tire ;
When ower gaed Tam, the kirn, and a',
Baith landed in the fire.
The steam flew up in Tammie's face.
And maist blew oot his een ;
And sic a sicht as Tammie was,
I'm sure was never seen.
He gied a yell that micht hae pierced
A heart o' stane or lead ;
It put the dancin oot his heels,
The music oot his head.
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k
220 POEMS.
But Tarn is noo an altered man,
For noo he drinks nae mair,
But snugly sits by his fireside,
There's peace and plenty there.
I trow he'll ne'er forget the nicht,
As lang as he has life,
He danced the reel o' HuUachan,
And ca'd the kirn his wife.
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POEMS. 221
OF ALL THE LOATHSOME SIGHTS ON
EAKTH.
Of all the loathsome sights on earth,
The vilest is the spy ;
No sense of honour in his breast,
He glories in a lie.
His bosom friend he will betray,
Or swear his life away ;
A hated miscreant indeed,
And in the Devil's pay,
The hated spy ! where'er he goes,
A curse is on that spot ;
The Judas spy, if only paid.
Would cut his father's throat.
The wicked spy ! where'er he goes,
His steps are tracked with blood ;
Arouse, each manly heart.
And crush this cancer in the bud.
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222 POEMS.
The spy, the spy, the horrid spy I
He goes from door to door ;
There's treachery within his heart,
And treason in its core.
Assassin-like he stalks abroad,
A moral leprosy ;
A villain in disgrace he is,
Cloaked in hypocrisy.
It brings a blush of burning shame
Upon each manly brow,
To think that spies are to be seen
Within Otago now.
Does Justice then require such aid
To stem corruption's tide,
That now she sits upon her throne
With traitors by her side ?
The spy, the spy, the sneaking spy !
The vilest of the vile ;
Shall he by men who are in power.
Be nursed within our soil ?
A Eobespierran body-guard,
A set of arrant knaves ;
Ay ! they are bad ; — but what are they
Who can employ such slaves ?
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POEMS. 223
WHEN TO OTAGO FIEST I CAME.
When to Otago first I came,
The truth I'm bound to tell,
I thocht I never would get on,
And maist gaed by mysel*.
The season was baith cauld and wat.
The like had ne'er been seen ;
For at the end o' harvest time,
The stooks were growing green.
Awhile I grumbled nicht and day,
Misca'd Otago weel ;
I didna blame kind Providence,
But faith I blamed the Deil,
For bringing me sae grey a gate.
To ruin wife and wean ;
I wad hae gien my very sark,
To be at hame again.
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224
I thocht upon my native land,
And on the crystal streams ;
And often I returned again,
While slumbering in my dreams.
My wife, puir body, wasna weel,
And whiles she took a greet ;
The bairns were runnin' thro' the toun,
Wi' bare and bluidy feet.
At last I plucket up my heart,
And tackled to the wark ;
I rose up wi' the momin' sun.
And knocket aff at dark.
Wi' toiling at the grubbin' hoe,
I got a pickle wheat ;
I'll ne'er forget as lang's I live,
How sweet the bread did eat.
At lang and length I got a cow,
She yet is to the fore ;
I got another by and by,
And now I've twa three score.
Ten acres was my little farm.
That's no the way o't noo ;
I wark nae mare wi' grubbin' hoe.
But whistle at the plough.
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POEMS. 225
So come along, my jolly boys,
You're welcome ane and a ;
Ne'er fash your thumb tho' ye be poor,
Toull soon be bein and braw.
We a' were poor as weel as you.
And thocht it nae disgrace ;
So dinna ye doun-hearted be.
Or rashly judge the place.
But put your shoulder to the wheel,
You'll see how it will row ;
A British heart must never yield.
So draw a gallant bow.
Depend upon't you will succeed.
If you'll but persevere ;
When ye will bless the happy day,
That ever ye cam here.
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226 POEMS.
NEW ZEALAND COMFORTS.
When to New Zealand first I cam,
Poor and duddy, poor and duddy,
When to New Zealand first I cam,
It was a happy day, sirs.
For I was fed on parritch thin,
My taes they stickit thro' my shoon,
I ruggit at the pooken pin,
But couldna mak it pay, sirs.
Baith nicht and day upon the board,
Ruggin' at it, tuggin' at it,
I strived to please a paper lord,
Wha ance had been a weaver.
But he got up, and I got doun,
I wandered idly through the toun,
A tattered bonnet on my croon.
And wasna worth a steever.
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POEMS. 227
Nae mail the laird comes for his rent,
For his rent, for his rent,
Nae mair the laird comes for his rent.
When I hae nocht to pay, sirs.
Nae mair he'll tak me aflf the loom,
Wr hanging lip and pouches toom.
To touch my hat, and hoo to him.
The like was never kent, sirs.
But now it's altered days, I trow,
A weel I wat, a weel I wat.
The beef is tumbling in the pat,
And I'm baith fat and fu', sirs.
At my door cheeks there's bread and cheese,
I work, or no', just as I please,
I'm fairly settled at my ease,
And that's the way o't noo, sirs.
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228 POEMS.
I HAVE OOT A WIFE AT LAST.
I HAVE got a wife at last,
Och hone a ri !
And all my glory's past,
Och hone a ri I
She's saucy and she's bold,
She's now a perfect scold,
Her tongue she will not hold,
Och hone a ri !
She walks about all day,
Och hone a ri !
In her house she will not stay,
Och hone a ri !
She must have satins fine.
She must have cakes and wine,
Tho' I should sparely dine,
Och hone a ri !
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FOEMS. 229
she was mim and meek,
Och hone a ri !
But it did not last a week,
Och hone a ri !
Till a pretty row arose,
And she scratched me on the nose,
When we fairly cam to blows,
Och hone a ri I
Then she put me to the rout,
Och hone a ri !
She is baith tall and stout,
Och hone a ri !
She put me to the rout.
And she made me wheel about,
I*m fairly up the spout,
Och hone a ri !
Her love was only flam,
Och hone a ri !
But wedlock's not a sham,
Och hone a ri !
My very heart is grilled.
Done brown, and double milled.
My cup of woe is filled,
Och hone a ri I
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230 POEMS.
YESTREEN I GAED TO SEE MY LASS.
Yestreen I gaed to see my lass,
A lass that I loe dearly ;
I met her in yon winding glen,
The moon was shining clearly.
The balmy breeze played 'mang the trees.
With Autumn's gentle flutter ;
I clasped her to my beating heart.
But word I couldna utter.
We sat us doon upon a bank,
Our ban's were linked thegither ;
Like diamonds shone her een sae clear.
That hour forget 111 never.
She pledged her troth she would be mine,
what a glorious treasure I
I kissed her ower and ower again,
'Twas joy without a measure.
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POEMS. 231
KEN TE GIN THE NEWS BE TRUE ?
KEN ye gin the news be true ?
I pray ye neighbours tell ;
Is Jamie really back again ?
Mak haste, and toll the bell.
Let bonfires blaze on ilka hill,
Let cannons loudly roar ;
Like strings o' geese well doun the wharf,
And see him come ashore.
For Jamie's our ambassador.
For him well ever pray ;
The rabble now may gust their gabs,
On eighteenpence a day.
Let men of mark be marshalled fast
Upon the Court-house green ;
And all the while the fiddles play
" Cauld kail in Aberdeen."
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232 POEMS.
And then we'll march doun to the quay,
To meet his Lordship's G-race ;
Let police watch, lest tinkler wives
Fling dirt in Jamie's face.
For Jamie's our ambassador, <fec.
Then rank and file, in noble style
We'll march him up and doon ;
Set working men to claut the streets,
Lest Jamie files his shoon.
We'll drink his health in three times three.
This day we'll sorrow droun ;
The least neglect would bring disgrace
Upon Dunedin toun.
For Jamie's our ambassador, &c.
There's ae snug berth that's no filled up,
To carry out the law ;
Now Jamie was a sailor bold,
And weel a rope can draw :
He's just the very man for us.
He'll do the job sae weel ; —
I think I see him touch the spring,
Then turn upon his heel,
For Jamie's our ambassador, <fec.
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F0EH8. 233
LET CANNONS EOAE AND TRUMPETS
BLAW.
LsT cannons roar, and trumpets blaw,
And let Otago crousely craw,
Wha's like her noo among them a',
For blessings sent her ;
Oor great ambassador's awa,
Jock the Precentor.
I think I see the Cockneys stare
At this new sample o* oor ware ;
They'll crood aboot him like a fair,
To get a sicht ;
They'll think it's some new-fashioned bear
Just come to licht.
Wi' roarin' speech he then will tell
Hoo mony acres we've to sell,
0' staney knowes and bushy dell,
Whaur ferns and toot
Point out a pleasant place to dwell.
For man and brute.
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234 POEMS.
Wi* coat wcel trimm'd wi' gold and lace,
To mark him as a man o' place,
He*ll shew his vulgar, brazen face,
An' double chin ;
It's maybe the effects o' grace,
Or maybe gin.
Oor trade in ships he then will mention.
And claim the Star as his invention,
That sails beyond a' comprehension,
'G-ainst win' and tide,
And goes best in a north direction,
On her braid side.
I hope hell no forget to tell
Aboot oor cannons and oor bell,
Oor flagstaff too, that by itsel'
Stan's on a hill ;
And brawly hell hae min' himsel'
0' V /s Mill.
He'll brag aboot Otago craps,
Whaur grapes grow to the gable taps.
That doun the lum the bunches draps
Amang the kail ;
That peaches grow at dykeside shaps,
By ditch and rail.
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POEMS. 2S5
He'll tell a' that the Kirk has dune
For Maories that were waefu' hlin',
And hoo they ate the flesh and skin
0' their ain mithers ;
But noo they're a' reclaimed frae sin,
And live like hrithers.
Then Jock will get an invitation
To dine wi' princes o* the nation,
The clergy too, o' every station,
Will roun' him draw,
To greet him as oor deputation.
And hear him hlaw.
The Free Kirk loud may hlaw her horn,
Wi' chaplets green her brows adorn,
Dissenters noo are fairly shorn
0' a' their glory ;
The like o' this was never home
In modem story.
And 0, but she may weel content her.
Such blessings rare as noo are sent her.
To think her son, a puir precentor.
Should rise sae heigh ;
There should be something dune anent her,
Shell tum ower skeigh.
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236
P0EH8.
Noo, Jockie lad, awa' ye gang,
A reef may be taen in or lang,
When ye may sing anither sang,
It's my belief ; ,
So mak the maist o't while ye can,
Liok-spittle in chief.
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POEMB. 237
A WITHEE'D AULD MAN.
A WITHERED auld man,
Wi' a bonnie young wife,
Is the ugliest sicht
To be seen in this life.
It reverses fair Nature
And fair Cupid's law ;
'Tis December and May,
'Tis fire mingled wi' snaw.
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238
HUERAH FOR OTAGO !
Hurrah for Otago ! with a heart and a will,
And " Farewell" to the land of the heather and hill!
We are now on the sea for Otago's fair shore,
The land of the heather well never see more.
Hurrah for Otago ! the ship spreads her sail ;
Tho' we love Fatherland, we have no cause to wail ;
For we seek a new home where there's plenty in store,
But the land of the heather we'll never see more.
Hurrah for Otago ! we're now on our way,
Where there's plenty of work, and plenty to pay ;
Hurrah for Otago I our friends are before.
But the land of the heather we'll never see more.
Hurrah for Otago I farewell to the North,
Farewell to the CHyde, farewell to the Forth ;
We will still love our Queen as we all did before,
But the land of the heather we'll never see more.
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239
Hurrah for Otago ! too long we're delayed ;
Thei;e labour is honoured, and handsomely paid,
There are both peace and plenty at every man's door,
But the land of the heather we'll never see more.
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240 FOEMS.
AWAKE, MY MUSE !
Awake, my Muse, thy loftiest strain,
Inspire my thoughts, and fire my brain.
To sing my Scottish lay ;
To Scotia's hills and crystal streams
My mem'ry turns in waking dreams.
Where I in youth did stray.
My dreaming fancy seeks the North,
The lovely Clyde, the classic Forth ;
I seek each battle-field ;
I see her shores where oceans rave,
I stand beside the martyr's grave.
Whose blood his faith had seal'd.
I see great Wallace take the field.
Whose mighty heart would never yield
Ta proud despotic sway ;
I see him wave above his head
His glittering spear or battle-blade,
The foremost in the fray.
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POEMS. 241
My bosom bums, my pulse beats high,
I hear the Brace's battle cry
On glorious Bannockburn ;
I hear the slogan of each clan,
As Scottish chiefs lead on the van.
Oppression's tide to turn.
«
I see the Scottish banner wave.
The Lion red, flag of the brave,
I hear the battle's roar ;
The God of battles grant you speed.
To drive, with trae heroic deed.
Invaders from our shore.
The battle now spreads far and wide,
The Bannock's stream's a purple tide.
There's many a bloody grave ;
No man of blood, I trast, am I,
But Where's the wretch who would not die
His liberty to save ?
Now arrows fly as thick as hail,
The sun shines bright on burnished mail
And many a glittering spear ;
As billows dashing on the shore.
Arose the thund'ring battle's roar,
All deaf ning on the ear.
Q
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242' POEMS.
From rank to rank King Bobert flies,
Where'er he strikes a foeman dies,
Such was the Brace's might ;
He cried, " Who would be Edward's slave ?
This day for me a bloody grave,
Or I maintain my right."
I hear the pibroch loud and shrill,
I see the Scots rush down the hill
Besistless as a flood ;
With battle-axe or glittering blade
The reeling foe are lowly laid.
And Bannock's stream runs blood.
And now the kilted warriors rush
Upon the foe who came to crush
The very Scottish name ;
But now like chaff" I see them toss'd.
And Edward s hopes for ever lost,
I see them fly with shame.
I wish my Muse might tarry here.
It may not be ; I shed a tear
O'er gory Flodden Field ;
A day that ne'er shall be forgot.
Fame still shall mark the fatal spot
Where Scot for once did yield.
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posMs. 243
A sad, sad wail rings in my ears,
'Tis Scotia's wail of blood and tears ;
She mourns that fatal year,
When her best blood fell thick as rain,
Ah, dismal day I her Monarch slain.
And broken was her spear.
Again on fancy's dream I draw,
I stand beside old Cruikstone Ha',
I see a weeping Queen ;
Her maidens stand on eVry side.
While Mary gazes on Langside,
All deadly pale, I ween.
What sees she there ?— embattled hosts
In bloody strife of battle toss*d.
While hot the conflict grew ;
For Scotland's Queen this deadly strife.
Stem warriors fought for death or life.
And shrill the trumpets blew.
Foul treason's shout assails my ears.
Queen Mary stands all bathed in tears,
Her ranks are broken through ;
On eVry side her squadrons fly :
Now, Mary, now's the time to die
And bid this world adieu.
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244 POEMS.
With sorrow now my fancy turns
To mourn the fate of Robert Bums,
Ah, unavailing grief !
But till this heart of mine be cold,
While still this hand a pen can hold,
111 wail thee, Minstrel Chief.
In fancy I sit by thy bed.
And on my breast support thy head,
I fan thy burning brow ;
Again I wander by some rill,
And drop a tear for Tannahill,
The second Bard to thou.
My humble verse draws to a close :
Long may the Thistle and the Rose
O'er free-bom Britons wave ;
The Shamrock, too, with willing hand,
Well bind within the sacred band,
Tme emblems of the brave !
The glorious sun now sinks to rest,
While purple clouds adom the west
And many a golden ray ;
All nature seems so quiet and still.
As peeps the moon o'er distant hill :
So ends my Scottish Lay.
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posMB. 245
FBAGMENT,
The thistle of old Scotia,
With England's blooming rose ;
The shamrock of old Ireland,
In Erin's isle that grows :
They form a blessed posie,
They're emblems of the brave —
The standards of true liberty,
The passport of the slave.
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246 roEMs.
I DEAKLT LOVE MY NATIVE LAND.
I DEARLY love my native land.
Though oceans wide between us roll ;
Tho' parted ne'er to meet again,
Tis dearest to my soul.
I proudly own I am a Scot,
I boast of Scotia's deathless name,
I doat upon each classic spot.
And on each field of fame.
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r EMS. 247
THE HYPOCKITE GANGS TO THE KIKK.
The hypocrite gangs to the kirk,
He cheats mankind by every quirk,
Begardless of the shame ;
And yet he often is preferr'd
To men of worth who never swerVd,
Or stained bright honour's name.
With studied gait, or visage sour,
He acts the saint, or Simon Pure,
The better to beguile ;
He cares for no one but himself,
His only aim is catching pelf.
By every means that's vile.
He swindles with consummate skill.
He'd forge a deed, or burn a will,
Tho' helpless orphans mourn ;
To every crime his conscience bends,
While black deceit assistance lends.
To gain his selfish turn.
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248 POEMS.
The hypocrite must die at last ;
His future dark, and black the past.
He sinks beneath his load ;
He's laid in a dishonour'd grave,
A branded villain and a knave,
For money was his god.
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POBMS. 249
HIS HONOUE HE SAT IN HIS CHAIB OF
GBEAT STATE.
Tune— rAtf Laird o' Cockpm.
His honour he sat in his chair of great state,
Surrounded by courtiers that fain would be great,
He sat in his chair and right sternly said he,
" AU the land in Otago it taxM shaU be."
The wheat is now threshed and it's sent to the mill,
To be ground into flour by Peter M'GriU ;
It's ground into flour, and it's then sent away.
So the tax upon land they are able to pay.
The roads they are bad, and the flour it is dear,
111 teU you the reason and make it quite clear,
Until we get roads you must pay for the hire.
Of hauling your produce through oceans of mire.
So his honour he cried, " Come down with the dust,
To-day you must pay, and to-morrow get trust.
For roads we must have thro' the length of the Ian',
So seU oflf your wheat, lads, and live upon bran."
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250
YE SILLY ATILD BODY.
f* Ye silly auld body, ye doited atild body,
What use in this world can ye hae for a wife ?
'Twould only torment ye, and fairly dement ye,
And rack yer auld heart a' the days o' yer life.
Ye say ye're in love, man, that ye canna prove, man,
Your head is as white as a ripe thistle's tap.
Your purse may be spacious, but, 0, goodness gracious !
Between love and you there's a wonderfu' gap.
Love dwells among roses, where Cupid reposes,
Where flowers speak of love and young life in its
bloom ;
But when the rose withers love fa's into shivers.
It's a pity it's sae, but such is our doom.
Suppose ye could get her, 'twould mak ye nae better,
A bonnie young lassie ne'er lo'ed an auld man ;
Your siller may please her, and when you release her
By gaun to your grave, it will buy a new pan.
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POEMS. 251
Young lads would be jeering, and young lassies sneer-
ing,
And ye would be jealous by nicht and by day ;
Just look in a glass, man, and then ye may guess, man,
How December will look when it's wedded to May.
Suppose your young leddy made you an auld deddy,
The bairn just your image some folk would declare;
When ye rockit the cradle and sang diddle daddle,
Auld wives, man, would laugh 'till their sides they
were sair.
But if ye will wed, man, then tak to your bed, man.
Some decent auld wife that may do for your nurse ;
But don't try young misses or cherry-ripe kisses,
Instead o' a blessing it will bring ye a curse.
I'm maist dune mysel', man, the truth I maun tell,
man.
But I've had my day, and that just mak's the odds ;
But my bairns represent me, and that does content me,
They'll keep up my name when I'm under the clods.
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252 posMB.
I LIKE TO STBAY AT GLOAMIN* GEEY.
I LIKE to «tray at gloamin' grey
By yonder winding bum,
That quietly wimples to the sea,
Wi' mony a gracefu* turn ;
For there I meet my lassie sweet,
The fairest e'er I saw ;
she is fair beyond compare,
And pure as spotless snaw.
Her cheek is of the rose's hue.
And dark blue are her een ;
Her modest face, sae fu' o' grace,
Marks her for beauty's queen.
The summer flowers by brook and bowers
Give pleasure to the e'e ;
But wi' my lass ae hour to pass
Is dearer far to me.
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POEMS. 258
COME, TUNE TOUB PIPES.
CoifE, tune your pipes and gar them skirl,
Come kittle up the chanter ;
Election times are coming on.
There's little time for banter.
For should we sleep upon our oars,
Well maybe live to rue it;
The yill is either sour or sweet
Just as ye chance to brew it.
In choosing representatives
I beg you to be cautious.
To put them in is easy done.
To put them out is fashions.
Hae nocht to do wi' greedy grabs,
Thrang huntin' for promotion ;
And spurn the sneaking hypocrite,
Wi' a' his fause devotion.
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254 POEMS.
FKAGMENT.
For honest men will bear the bell
When rogues come tumbling doon ;
For honesty's a precious gem,
That micht adorn a croon.
A knife is unco little worth
That wants the blade or heft ;
And when a man parts with the truth,
There's very little left.
But noo, my lads, anither word.
And just sit doon a wee ;
When honest men come to your door.
Shew hospitality.
Tak pity on the weary man
That comes upon your track ;
Ye naething brocht into this world,
And naething ye'U tak back.
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EDINBUBOH : PBINTKO BT JOHN OBUO & SOW
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